Of Learning and Survival
by Lerafea
Summary: AU, Slash. "You're not a Wizard, Harry." - They turned on him, so he ran away and left them to their war. But even from one world to another, he finds that obscurity really doesn't like him. Powerful/Independent!Harry in an alternate school.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not mine and will continue to remain so well after the conclusion of this story. This chapter and subsequent chapters are not intended to infringe on any applicable copyright.

**Warnings**: Post 2nd year, relatively unoriginal plot, some violence, _**slash**_, minor character bashing, graphically bloody scenes, explicit sex scenes, swear words, sexual innuendos, etc. But generally rated for safety.

**A/N**: The writing style may be a little odd for the first chapter or three, but this is mostly because I am setting up the story and trying not to bog any of you down with too much unnecessary literary rambles. But if something is unclear, let me know and I will rectify it to the best of my abilities. There is also the danger that some parts will not cohere with even the first two books, so I am calling for a suspension of belief. Other than that, I hope you enjoy the story.

* * *

**Of Learning and Survival  
**Chapter 1  
_**Part I: You're not a Wizard, Harry.  
**__April 1993_

Breathing hurt, and it came in short, sharp gasps that set his throat aflame as he ran blindly down the near-empty street. Turbulent emotions and incoherent thoughts swamped his mind, making his head reel and his heart ache.

He kept moving, though he could not see, tears obscuring his vision and reducing the world to a blur of dark shadows and random shapes. There was nowhere – and no one – for him to run right now. He was directionless, and that realisation made his heart stop and yet caused it to pound a thousand times faster in the same moment. The sheer weight of being alone in the vast and cruel world stole the last ounces of strength he had left, and the young wizard, not even a teenager, collapsed onto the cemented pavement.

What a sight he must have made; a broken figure in black wizarding robes lying in a heap on a muggle street. But he could not bring himself to care as he curled into a tight ball and sobbed his shattered heart out.

"You're not a Wizard, Harry," Dumbledore had told him gravely, his eyes troubled even as he held a broken holly and phoenix feather wand in his wrinkled hands. There lay Harry's heart, snapped in two with a simple flick of the wrist. Could they blame him for his pained screams?

Non-wizards, the Minister of Magic had said, did not have the privilege of wielding wands.

And non-wizards did not attend Hogwarts.

That night, Harry Potter cried for a broken heart and a lost home. For a broken trust and a betrayal that sliced through every dream and hope he had ever possessed. For the sense of loss that brought such acute pain, he felt as though he would pass out from the sheer _hurt_.

But when he had shed more tears than he thought he had in him, pale cheeks still wet and eyes as red as the Gryffindor tie he wore just hours ago, he brought himself unsteadily to his feet and began to make his way down the street like a drunk stumbling home in the dark.

How he had apparated from Hogwarts to London, he did not know – and did not care.

_"You're not a Wizard, Harry."_

His young heart cried out in denial for how could it be true? He had performed magic with that wand, stopped a possessed professor from obtaining the philosopher's stone and slain a fully-grown basilisk with a founder's sword. Even his apparation that defied _Hogwarts: A History_ was testament to the magic that ran in his very veins.

He had magic and there was absolutely no doubt whatsoever about that. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. A thrice-damned wizard if there ever was one.

A scream bubbled in his throat, threatening to burst free with the desire to lash out at the cold, unfeeling world. How dare he? How dare Albus Dumbledore present an entire life, an entire _world_, to him on a gilded platter, only to snatch it away like a jealous child?

Tears came, fresh and warm, to replace those he had furiously brushed away. He had thought there were no tears left in him.

_"You're not a Wizard, Harry."_

He was only 12, going on 13. Yet the Minister of Magic had wanted to have him arrested. Under what charges he did not know; he had not stuck around long enough to find out. The moment several stern-looking wizards in red garb entered the headmaster's office through the Floo, Harry only knew that he had to get the hell out of there.

Choking back a sob, Harry recalled the pain that he had experienced the night before his world came crashing down at his feet. It was a different pain to the kind he was experiencing now – the tangible kind, and one that he would choose at the drop of a hat over the hurt inflicted by one whom he had respected greatly.

It was his initial magical inheritance, Dumbledore had explained, before he had broken the news and his wand. It had come several years before an average wizard's would have and was several thousands of times more painful than it usually was. The strange markings that had appeared on his skin in brilliant colours were almost unheard of too, though the bespectacled wizard had not elaborated.

Merlin had it hurt. It had felt like a dozen cruciatuses, a million stabbing knives and several shock waves of electricity running through his thin frame. Pain like no other, Harry had thought. Incomparable. Nothing else could possibly overshadow the sheer pain he had experienced. But Harry now knew better.

_"You're not a Wizard, Harry."_

He kept on walking.

* * *

_**Part II: When hunger becomes too much to bear  
**__April 1993_

It had only been four days.

Harry had slept in a park, on a pavement outside MacDonald's and in the subway station. Food was almost non-existent, although the manager at the fast food joint was kind enough to offer him a box of leftover chicken nuggets on the second night after his expulsion. Adults and the authorities had eyed him with suspicion but left him alone for the most part.

Ultimately, however, he was high, dry and desperate to lay his grubby fingers on some food. Or some money that would get him food.

So he flipped his Hogwarts robe inside out and sneaked into the pub when Tom the Bartender's back was turned. Quietly positioning himself behind a wizarding family who conveniently tapped out the correct sequence of bricks, Harry silently slipped into the heart of wizarding Britain. It was a daring move, that much he knew. He was simply beyond caring.

That did not stop nervousness from hammering at his heart, though, as verdant orbs darted around behind grimy lenses. Muscles tensed and coiled in preparation to flee as he half-expected a squadron of wizards to pounce on him as soon as he lifted his head. When no angered yelling or victorious shouts were to be heard, the boy clutched his robe close to his thin frame and darted towards his immediate destination – Gringotts.

It was early enough on a Sunday morning that the bank was still empty. The few people that were in the establishment paid the dishevelled boy no mind as he approached a counter with a vast amount of trepidation.

"I would like to make a withdrawal," the dark-haired pre-teen informed the goblin on duty, meeting the stern gaze with a small flinch. The creature sat on a raised marble dais, making him appear several heads taller than the nerve-wrecked boy. But while the past few days had robbed Harry of his trust and replaced it with a wounded heart and a belly full of anger, it would take more than the wizarding world to deprive him of his Gryffindor bravery.

"Key."

"Lost it," the boy fibbed, scuffing his shoe against the marbled floor.

"Name," the goblin demanded, raising two oddly-shaped eyebrows in a picture of scepticism.

"... Harry Potter." Reluctant, it was a quiet admission, and once again the boy felt acutely self-conscious as he glanced about for anyone looking his way.

"Come."

Startled, Harry looked back at the goblin to find him stepping off the dais with little grace and no embarrassment as he began to lead the Boy-Who-Lived towards the back of the building, not looking back to see if he was being followed.

"Where are you taking me to?" Harry demanded, still rooted to the spot. Was the goblin going to lock him away somewhere while they called Dumbledore? He was well and truly screwed if that were the case. But the shorter creature merely spared a glance over his shoulder to provide him with a curt answer.

"Make new key."

Seeing that he had little other choice, Harry scrambled to follow after the green-skinned creature who marched along a labyrinth of marbled corridors that twisted and turned until the child had no clue as to which direction they had originally come from.

The option of running back no longer feasible, Harry swallowed and wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. The longer they walked, the less light there seemed to be and his nervousness multiplied with each step they took.

It had to be several long minutes before they finally came to an abrupt halt, causing Harry to collide heavily into the solemn goblin.

"S-sorry," Harry apologised hastily, though his apology went unacknowledged as the unidentified goblin knocked sharply on the door they had come to a stop in front of. Without waiting for admission, he turned the knob and swung the door open.

"Manager Gnarl will see you."

With that, the goblin was off, headed back towards the unknown direction that they had come from and leaving the young boy, stunned, in the dark corridor.

"Come in please, Harry Potter."

* * *

_**Part III: Relocation  
**__June 1993_

Not enough sunlight was allowed to filter through grimy windows and the air was filled with the unmistakable smell of old and musty books that lined bookshelf after bookshelf. There were tomes, booklets, textbooks, pamphlets and all sorts of reading material that probably ran into the millions in quantity, all crammed into every nook and cranny there was available in the small store. Each piece was a treasure guarded fiercely by the shop owner, akin to the treasure trove of a goblin.

But Harry Potter was not cowed by the fierce glare of the old man, who was partially blind as it were – reading for hours on end in the dark could do that to someone. Instead, the dark-haired boy took his time to peruse the contents of each shelf, pausing occasionally to add to the growing stack of books by the counter. There was nothing new in the entire shop; the books were either well-preserved or falling apart. There seemed, however, to be no end to the kind of books one could find in there.

He took well over an hour to scour the shop and when he was done, he had several dozen books waiting to be rung up.

The shopkeeper scowled as he tallied up the amount he was to be paid, almost as if he were peeved he had a customer. The boy took no notice of it, already used to the old man's cranky behaviour although he had only begun visiting the place three weeks ago.

"Have these back here within the month," the hunched old man rasped out, a warning glint in hazy eyes. "One sickle for each book per day after that."

Verdant met milky-blue and Harry simply nodded, carefully grabbing the feather-light bag of books before exiting _Reedington's Reads for Rent_.

Knockturn Alley was a quiet place to be in the early morning, its usual occupants either still out cold or nursing too large a hangover to come out. Nimbly side-stepping several prone bodies by the street, the former Hogwarts student slipped into a small back alley and up a flight of creaky stairs. The door at the top swung open with a whine even before he reached it and shut itself without even a glance from him.

To be sure, the place he was staying in was no palace. In fact, it was not even a basic apartment. Rather, he had the upper floor of a small shop, and it had no rooms whatsoever. It was just an expanse of bare space when he first saw it, a small dirty toilet and a shower tucked away at the corner, with wooden beams holding up the roof.

Now, the toilet was still dirty but there were random belongings strewn over the place. A large mattress occupied the centre stage of the floor with a short table by its side. In a corner of the room, where there was a tiny window overlooking the streets, stood a half-filled bookcase that contained several manually-bound parchments that resembled manuscripts.

The landlord, for a small fee, had magically restored rotting floor planks and another galleon ensured that the magical plumbing of the toilet and shower actually functioned.

A faint odour permeated the room, but it was the same rank that filled the entire alley so it was hardly worth bothering about. After wandering the streets for days after his exile and having far too many near-misses with the authorities and street gangs, having a place, no matter how run down, to return to at the end of the day was a relief in itself.

Harry's move into the darker side of the wizarding area was an accidental one. To be sure, he could not spend much time in Diagon Alley – there were posters of him put up alongside that of a prison escapee, declaring him a wanted persona non grata. The boy was avoiding the wizarding police – aurors, he recalled with distaste – when he ducked into the seedy alley and promptly tripped over a hag selling werewolf bones. He had shuddered and backed away, anxiously flattening stringy hair over his forehead even as she tried to shove her wares in his face.

Then something amazing happened. Brief, but wonderful to him all the same.

The skinny youth had thrust his hands out to keep her away from him, more than slightly scared by her crooning tone and repulsive appearance. He felt warmth travelling up his arms and before the Boy-Who-Lived could blink or utter another protest, a short burst of energy sent her careening into a wall. Several of her 'wares' shattered on the impact and the terrified boy turned tail and fled the scene.

But nothing else went well that day for the frightened child, who proceeded to get ambushed by every other questionable character in the alley. He had tried calling up another bout of wandless magic but to no avail. As the night descended upon the alley, Harry was beginning to sink into the depths of despair.

'Room for Rent', read a faded sign in the grubby window of a clothing store. Green eyes gazed at it in brief contemplation before the scrawny figure stumbled into the shop, almost dead on his feet. Half an hour later, he was fast asleep on the cold floor of the bare room he now occupied.

Things had definitely looked up since that day, some month ago in May, though most would not see such bare living as much of an improvement.

His landlord had been an excellent source of wisdom in street wisdom, having provided the lost boy with directions around the Alley and advice on how to keep his life and purse intact. He had clothed the boy, personally showed him the way to _Reedington's Reads for Rents_ and watched as the young boy relaxed from a skittish runaway to a quiet but more grounded youth whom he enjoyed sharing a pint of butterbeer with on occasion. Naturally, however, each of his services came attached with an unwritten invoice.

Still, the boy did not seem overly concerned about doling out several knuts and sickles, even the occasional galleon, and it didn't take long for the man – Mr Guy Goulding – to realise that the boy had deeper pockets than his initial appearance led on. He still did not know what the lad's name was or how old he was, nor was he aware of what he did when he was holed up in the second floor, or disappeared for extended periods of times. It was none of his business; the lad had made that much clear.

On his first day at Knockturn, Harry had ventured from his room after a night of restless sleep, at a bit of a loss as to what he could do with himself. His only possession was the pouch of gold he had obtained from the bank. Goulding, had taken one look at his new tenant and began calling into question the lad's ability to fork out the rent on time.

"You look like an urchin off the streets," he sniffed, despite having already received three months' worth of lease.

"Threadbare robes, scruffy appearance and no job to get you by I would assume. You've gone and run away from your home, I'll bet. What'll you do once the money in your fancy pouch runs out, eh? I'll not have you paying me late, even by a single day, you hear me?"

But Harry had merely stared blankly at the tailor, who would have taken it for a lack of comprehension if it were not for the short reply that came after a pregnant pause.

"You'll be paid on time."

"See that I do, young'in," Goulding warned in a half-grumble, his interest having waned by then as he shuffled over to the door and flipped the sign to indicate that the shop was opened. "And next time take the stairs that bring you straight to the street. Don't want you messing around here when I've got customers."

Not that he had many in the day. But the boy was unnerving him with his piercing green eyes that seemed to stare at him and through him in the same instance.

"I need clothes," Harry said abruptly, and returned Goulding's curious gaze with a steady one although his tone indicated that it was more of a voiced thought than anything else.

"What kind?"

Here, the boy hesitated and shifted slightly on his feet as though unsure, his fists curling into the folds of his inside-out robe.

"Robes?"

The older man snorted, rolled his eyes heavenwards and asked for patience when dealing with the ignorant.

"You have nothing with you, unless there was a shrunken trunk or bag hidden amidst your rags, am I right?"

Harry nodded mutely, and Goulding flipped the sign back around with an unhealthy amount of glee that was disguised as exasperation. It was time to relieve the boy of some more of his gold.

* * *

_**Part IV: Goblin Business and Bloody Rites  
**__June 1993_

Ironheart Gnarl eyed the boy seated in front of him with an unreadable expression on his green face, yet unsure as to how he should regard the wizarding outcast. Every time he thought he had an inkling of the boy's character, the brunette went and did something to the contrary. In time, he would come to accept this as part of the youngling's charm but for now he had the boy's request to consider.

Just over two months ago, Harry Potter had been escorted to his office looking like the fresh runaway child that he was – dirty, unkempt and frightened. All he had requested for was some money from his vault to buy enough food in order to survive the following day. But he had left with more than he had bargained for because prior to his unannounced arrival, Gnarl had been trying to sink his crooked fingers into the Boy-Who-Lived to no avail – thanks to the tall wizard Dumbledore, whose skinny arse Gnarl would gladly kick if he thought he could get away with it.

There were two wills that needed young Potter's presence to execute, a magical inheritance that the ignorant child had gone through and a hefty amount of paperwork that required his approval once he had accepted his rights as head of the Potter house. The goblin had almost resigned himself to waiting until after the boy had graduated from school to get all this done.

It was thus with no little amount of smugness that he had read James Potter's will aloud, twelve years after the wizard's untimely demise. With it, he bequeathed all Potter estates and monies to Harry, handed over the family signet ring.

Lily Evans nee Potter's will was a lot less complicated, but Harry's eyes, which had rounded with each word that was uttered from Gnarl's mouth, filled with unshed tears that made the goblin decidedly uncomfortable. Every magical thing his mother had owned, she left to her precious son, including her diary which she highlighted he was to read very carefully.

That done, Gnarl had summoned a younger goblin to take the Potter to his vault for the money he had requested. The child, he could see, was stunned and clearly dead on his feet. Indubitably, his parents' wills were not something the orphan could process in the space of an hour so with as kind a word as he could muster, Gnarl gave the child a pouch that would prevent the thievery of his money and sent him on his way.

He did not particularly care where the child went or what he did and it was for his own benefit that he provided the boy with a portkey that would take him back to his office in a weeks' time. A week, Gnarl decided, was more than enough time for Harry Potter to think about his abrupt change in circumstances, a frail boy though he was. And then he could conclude their business as far as posthumous instructions went.

But the second meeting turned into the third and the third developed into a chain of regular meetings, in which the young Potter – looking a lot more presentable – politely requested that Gnarl teach him about the magical world. This was done amidst their discussions on how to handle the Potter estates, which were not very large but had the potential to grow if given adequate attention. And Harry Potter was giving it more attention than any other Potter had before.

That alone was enough for Gnarl to justify the amount of time he was spending with the boy that was not quite a man and not quite a wizard, bringing him to the present where he was faced with yet another request from the seemingly placid teen.

"Why do you want to perform an inheritance test?" It was a simple question – the most obvious one to ask, in fact. The Potter family was not that old and its family tree hardly complicated. Gnarl would bet a prized weapon that there was no inheritance waiting in the wings to be discovered.

But the boy merely shrugged and tilted his head at the goblin who had been more of a mentor to him in two months than Albus Dumbledore had in two years, though he was certainly less affectionate.

"I need to be certain of something."

Skinny fingers slid an open book across the desk and Gnarl glanced at the page it was opened at. The contents of Lily Evans' diary – retrieved from her vault after their second meeting – had been the cause of many a discussion in the past couple of weeks, although Harry was careful with how much he showed his bank manager.

As he read, the bristly hair that formed Gnarl's brow arched upwards and not for the first time, he wondered about the secrets that shrouded the teenager in front of him. Hailed a saviour at age one, but a wanted man at 13 for reasons yet unknown to the public.

Gnarl chuckled, a throaty sound that rumbled low and reverberated in the cosy office room as he raised his gaze to meet the gaze of guarded verdant eyes.

"Very well."

* * *

_**Part V: Not Even Human – Extracts from the diary of Lily Evans**_

26 July 1973, Summer Holidays:

Something odd happened yesterday afternoon. Mum said that I collapsed in the kitchen while I was baking with Petunia and that I started screaming like a banshee. Then I started to glow in all sorts of colours and Pet said that there were weird "squiggles" on my skin.

I don't remember all that, though, and I can't see the marks on my skin now. I just know it really, really hurt. I thought someone had cast a blood boiling hex on me or something and even that would be an understatement. Come to think of it, my throat's a little raw. But I'm fine now. Pet's refusing to talk to me. Mum said I really gave her the fright of her life. I haven't a clue as to what to do... She's never liked magic very much and now she thinks her little sister is more insane than she thought before.

I should probably ask McGonagall about the pain when I get back to school, although mum and dad are so worried I think they'll be sending her an owl before the week is up. I hope the holidays pass quickly. Fourth year at Hogwarts already promises to be so much fun...

[]

8 November 1973, Hogwarts:

Hufflepuff 7th year Jeremiah Hurst fell off his broom during Quidditch practice today – something about momentarily losing control of his body for a couple of seconds. Thankfully the episode lasted all of five seconds and he's back on his feet again.

I overheard Sirius Black referring to it as his initial iagical inheritance and faithful sidekick James Potter added that Hurst is awfully young to be having it. The other purebloods all looked rather awed. Nancy knew nothing about it either and I wasn't about to ask Potter after he so rudely stole my Transfig essay to copy last week. Merlin, that boy can be so bloody _rude!_ But I digress.

Madam Pince and the library are truly the answer to all things academic.

_"The Initial Magical Inheritance (IMI) is typically the first sign of the maturation of a magical core. It may occur at any time and without prior warning. The average age at which witches and wizards experience their IMI is 25 and 28 respectively." (Magical Cores and the Theory of Evolution, Page 14, Mabel Hubbard, 1934.)_

_"After undergoing IMI, the person may feel more energetic or may display more power than before. More importantly, the maturation of a magical core necessarily means that the witch or wizard's magic will be more stable." (Hubbard, 1934, page 17.)_

_"Depending on the magical potential of the person, the IMI may happen without the person noticing or sometimes with episodes of extreme pain. Theories have suggested that the earlier the IMI occurs in life and the more painful the experience is, the more powerful the witch or wizard is likely to be. None of these hypotheses have been proven beyond reasonable doubt, although it is often assumed as the truth by the general public." (Hubbard, 1934, Page 43.)_

For several minutes, I thought I had an explanation for my little 'episode' over the holidays. Then Nancy found this:

_"The Initial Magical Inheritance for aethers occurs before they reach the age of 15. During this, birth runes will be re-opened to allow for the expansion of their magical core. Unlike the Initial Magical Inheritance experienced by wizards, the experience is exceedingly painful for aethers and they often pass out once the inheritance has been concluded. This is the ideal time for any witnesses to report these individuals to the relevant authorities as they will not be in the position to fight back for several hours._

_Aethers, once having undergone their Initial Magical Inheritance, are extremely dangerous creatures, second only to Dragons. Their magic becomes highly unstable and they are likely to attack with little provocation. Though they have the appearance of humans, and are likely to be very young, the public is urged not to take pity on them for the consequences may prove dire..." (Ministry Guidebook to Magical Inheritances, British Ministry of Magic, 1970.)_

I think I ought to go to bed. Am feeling decidedly unwell.

[]

10 November, 1973, Hogwarts:

Aethers are not wizards. They are not humans. Their genetic make-up is vastly different from a human's and their magic to blood ratio is several times that of a wizard's. Classified as one of the most dangerous creatures to roam the Earth, there have been reports that these beings are among the most savage. What makes them highly dangerous, aside from their sheer power, is their capability of thought and calculated action. It is believed that there still exist aethers that hide themselves among wizards, although many also believe that they were hunted into extinction in the 14th Century. To harbour or knowingly withhold information of an aether is considered High Treason in the international community.

[]

18 February, 1974, Hogwarts:

... Every time a Professor praises me on my "excellent spell work" and "precise wand work", I cannot help but feel a surge of guilt and – oddly enough – anger.

I am an aether.

There. I have admitted it.

I have vividly-coloured eyes, several times the magic of an average wizard, and the tendency to work better and feel more comfortable among nature. I do not menstruate, I do not bleed normal blood when I get cut and Nancy says I sometimes glow in my sleep or when I get overly emotional about something. I have runes on my body that light up like bloody beacons when I over exert myself. I have not fallen ill since my IMI last year even though I've been traipsing around with less clothing than the others and not feeling the least bit cold in winter.

I am an aether. A being of magic. Magic's being. Whatever! I'm not a human anymore. I mean, I don't suppose I was a human to begin with but that is hardly the point.

The point is that it isn't fair. It isn't fair that they have condemned aethers as dangerous creatures when I bloody well know that I have hurt neither hide nor hair of anyone since my IMI. I've not turned into a senseless killer that is about the wreck death and carnage on the poor, helpless wizards.

Yet I cannot admit that I am an aether beyond the pages of this diary. Because if I do there will be no more Lily Evans. Her soul would be devoured by dementors and that would be it. Even if I haven't done a single thing against the law in my entire bloody life.

It just isn't fair. I bet there are other aethers out there but I can't seek their help because I don't know where to even start looking for them. Oh, Merlin. What on earth am I supposed to be doing with myself? I can't tell anyone and this is driving me up the blasted wall...

[]

21 May, 1974, Hogwarts

I asked Professor Slughorn if it were possible for an aether to be mistaken for a wizard or witch.

He said: "There is no recorded history of a muggleborn or wizard-born aether. Seeing that it has been proven that aethers are not of the human race, this is hardly surprising. Aethers are not about to spring forth from wizarding or muggle lines. That we can be assured of."

Not feeling very 'assured' right now.

[]

3 June, 1974, Home

It's been an emotional day. Pet's not speaking to me again but I'm far too dazed to care. In any case, I'm not up to speaking with mum or dad now either.

Is this a nightmare that I will wake up from in a few hours? Has my entire life been a farce?

Adopted. Of all things... I thought this sort of drama only occurs in novels and stupid television series...

* * *

_**Part VI: A Different Person  
**__August 1993_

With the new school term starting in a month, the streets of Diagon Alley was filled to the brims with children and adults alike, most there to purchase school supplies. They appeared hurried – or perhaps harried would be a better description – as they bustled their way through the crowd that seemed to thicken with every passing hour leading up to lunch.

One such person, however, was unfazed by the comings and goings of the people around him. He sat rather serenely at the ice cream parlour with a bowl of mint-flavoured confectionary going ignored where it sat beside the book he was engrossed in. Clad comfortably in grey slacks and a short green robe that brushed the tops of his dragon hide boots and ended at his knees, he was decidedly out of place amidst the chatters of excited children and the grumbles of tired parents.

"I do apologies for interrupting you reading, but would you mind if we shared a table?" Someone inquired politely, although he did not sound the least bit apologetic. "There are none available."

The stranger did not react immediately, choosing to complete the passage he was reading before glancing up. Vivid verdant met glacial grey as the former regarded the latter with a hint of startled contemplation in his gaze.

"Certainly," he finally acquiesced before returning to his book without a fuss, strands of auburn silk falling into his eyes as he did so.

Draco Malfoy raised a brow at how quickly his presence was disregarded but he took the seat nevertheless and settled in to savour his pecan pie and ice cream. For a lack of better things to do, the Malfoy heir began to study the stranger whose space he had imposed his presence upon.

He had a slender built, somewhat lean and graceful for a male and with none of the baby fat that one usually saw on children his age, and a head of dark red hair that lit up in the sunlight. With those impossibly green eyes and unblemished fair skin, had Draco been slightly older he would, without a doubt, have felt a degree of physical attraction to him. As it were, the young wizard was more than satisfied to note that the stranger's robes were tailor-made out of an expensive material, with a low collar and a clasp that he was sure was made from silver or platinum. His nails were carefully manicured and buffed and the book he was reading was leather-bound by hand, although the blonde could not make out a title. On his wrist was an old silver watch that bespoke good preservation against the wear and tear of time and if one squinted impolitely enough, they would see a gold ring about his index finger where family rings were to be worn.

By the time he had concluded his study of his table-partner, Draco was convinced that he was looking at a social peer. Of his age, no less, begging the question of why he was not a student at Hogwarts. Not that he knew of, at least.

But striking up conversation with him would be plain rude seeing that his attention had been occupied elsewhere since before he decided to impinge himself on the other boy. Family image came first and the blonde pouted discretely into his pie as he waited for his father to be done with his business in Knockturn Alley.

The next 15 minutes passed by in silence, although one could hardly describe the atmosphere as such. With the general noise coming from all directions of the shopping district, even the sound of cutlery against glass and turning of parchment paper was almost lost to Draco's inattentive ears as his mind wandered.

Finally, the familiar Malfoy hair came into sight and Draco pushed away his plate, sitting straighter in his chair as his father entered the ice cream parlour. The Head of House Malfoy paused, however, as he caught sight of the young boy seated across from his son, lost to the world with his head buried in his book.

"He was kind to let me share his table, Father," Draco informed his patriarch, a little unsure if he did the right thing, although he did not allow himself or his speech to waver. "The crowd is impossible today."

"I see," Lucius Malfoy responded without inflection. "Thank you, young man."

"It's of no issue," came the immediate reply as the startlingly green gaze was lifted from his book once again.

What information Draco took minutes to garner from the appearance of the other boy, Lucius took only seconds to take in. A thin brow arched upwards as the older Malfoy tilted his head slightly to the side without breaking his gaze from the lad.

"I'm Lucius Malfoy," he said bluntly, his age making it socially acceptable to interrupt the boy's activities the way Draco could not. "And this is my son, Draco Malfoy."

"A pleasure to meet the both of you, sir," replied the redhead as he stood, shutting the book and placing it to the side of the table as he sketched a quick and informal bow. There was no visible emotion on his face as he did so. "I am Aindreas Wyatt-Ildefonso."

"I wasn't aware that there were any left of the Ildefonso in Europe," Lucius frowned as he took a seat at the table without invitation.

If Aindreas found the older man's behaviour rude, he made no show of it as he reclaimed his seat with a shuffle of his robes. Draco thought he saw a hint of a frown creasing the boy's forehead but it was gone in an instance.

"My clan has relocated," the redhead agreed calmly. "I am merely here for a holiday and will be gone before the month is up."

"I trust you're enjoying yourself in England then?" Lucius inquired, tone finally reaching something that could be mistaken for detached politeness.

"It has been... educational." Here, Aindreas offered the Malfoy patriarch a quick smile before reaching for his bowl of ice cream that had yet to melt due to a standard freezing charm. But the youth took a bite and replaced the bowl with a slight blanch. Draco smirked. The well-bred could always tell when food was not fresh.

* * *

_**Part VII: Legacies and Inheritances  
**__August 1993_

"They didn't recognise me. I mean, Malfoy Senior was still rude but they were civil and quite pleasant in odd Malfoy fashion. Malfoy, the younger one I mean, hardly said a word with his father around. Bloody blonde ponce kept asking me about my parentage and all that tripe, though. I didn't slip up or make any social faux pas, and I think they bought whatever I spouted off the top of my head. Honestly, I thought they were going to call the aurors – or Death Eaters! – on me and were just stalling for time."

Gnarl studied the papers on his desk, content to let the young aether in front of him ramble to his heart's content about his first day in the alley under his new persona. It did not happen often with the lad and the goblin was not above indulging him on the occasions that he lost his composure.

When Harry Potter had requested for an inheritance test to be performed at the bank a month ago, Gnarl had been sceptical, to say the least. But when he held the parchment that charted his family tree and proclaimed the boy the heir to one of the largest aether family known to them, he had been beyond pleased with his own luck. Since then, it had not taken much effort on the boy's part for him to become a favourite with the traditionally grumpy creature who detested humans in all forms.

Though, technically, Harry was no longer a human.

He was an aether and aethers did not do things by halves. Gnarl had a theory that the aether blood from Lily's side had overtaken whatever human blood he was to get from his father. Especially since it was the aether that had carried him in her body and shared her life force with him. Fortunately, the Potter clan did not have a clause against a non-human inheriting the family's various legacies.

The inheritance test had also removed several blood charms Lily Evans had woven on her son at his birth, rendering him the splitting image of his mother.

It was all rather convenient.

The lad was now able to walk about in broad daylight without fear of being recognised, although he insisted on remaining in Knockturn Alley as a precaution. Staying close the bookstore he frequented so often was, of course, something he was not willing to give up just yet. He had been devouring several books a day now, each one pertaining to magic or aethers in some way as the brunette-turned-redhead determinedly set about learning more about his race, himself and his abilities.

Some of the books he read were, of course, utterly incorrect because they were written by wizards and based upon conjectures. Still, it was better than having to muddle his way along like his mother was forced to do.

"Ironheart?"

"Yes, Lord Wyatt?"

It seemed like the lad had finished with his verbal spluttering and was now eyeing him with an intensity that made him feel several decades younger than he actually was.

"It's been close to five months now since I left Hogwarts."

"Indeed."

"I have no direction in life."

The statement was delivered so plainly and so simply but at the same time managed to convey a sense of helplessness that made Gnarl want to roll his eyes.

"You're on the right path," the goblin replied, nonplussed, continuing when the boy merely arched an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "You're learning more about yourself, you're handling and multiplying your estates for both the Potter family and Wyatt-Ildefonso clan. Furthermore, while the goblins have lost touch with aethers for several decades now, I have been working on regaining contact with my last acquaintance from that part of the world so that we may inform them of your presence in the wizarding world. I do not know when, but I have little doubt that we will be hearing from them soon. If my memory serves me well, they will care for their own kind in their own odd way."

Harry Potter, or Aindreas Wyatt-Ildefonso as he was now called, did not know what to say in his surprise. Nevertheless, his bank manager was right, and the aether was beginning to understand that Ironheart Gnarl was almost never wrong.

* * *

_**Part IIX: Letter from a Lost Land**_

Dear Lord Aindreas Wyatt of Ildefonso,

Enclosed is a key to Avalon District – the heartland of the Magical Realm. Once activated by three drops of your magic, it will serve only you and will continue to do so till you lose your limb or life. As an aether, this is your birthright. But you are bound by magic to keep whatever knowledge you have about the Magical Realm from the Unknowing or Non-Celestials. To add different destinations to the key, you may consult the key constructors at Avalon. While these destinations may include the British wizarding bank of Gringotts where you are at, I urge you to be discreet in whatever the business you have in the Wizarding World.

Please note that Avalon District – an island in its own right – is under the protection of magic that disallows all forms of physical or magical fighting. To do so without very good reason would strip you of your right to entry.

On a more personal note, you are to take this key to Avalon as soon as you are able to. Orientate yourself, learn all you can about your heritage and I will be expecting your application to school on the year prior to your 15th birthday. Unusual circumstances taken fully into account, no one will be giving you any leeway.

Till then, I remain

Amadis Cadence of Desiderius  
Headmistress of Mistral Academy of Higher Learning and Survival  
August 15th, 1993

_**Part IX: Ten things I've learnt about being an Aether by Aindreas Wyatt**_

1. Blood

Aethers have no blood. Only magic. But somehow we still need to eat to survive and therefore still require the use of bathrooms and toilets. Through experiments carried out on my personal self, aethers are also capable of ejaculation and the secretion of bodily oils but not of perspiration. Have looked into biological breakdowns but it is far too complicated – and my knowledge far too limited – to fully comprehend as of yet. Needless to say, aethers are exceedingly sensitive to magic.

I have cut myself with a knife and it hurt, so pain and touch receptors are still there. As mum wrote, aethers do not bleed blood. Rather, this sort of shimmering, colourless but thick and viscous liquid will seep through until the wound is closed. Further researched in Avalon has shown that this secretion performs most functions that human blood would and therefore giving anyone my magic or 'blood' or essence or life sustenance, as it is referred to in various sources, is not a good idea as it can be used in charms and potions to do with mind control and whatnot**.**

2. Foci

Matured aethers do not require the use of wands, staffs or any sort of foci to perform most of their magic. However, when it comes to the more detailed and focus-oriented magics such as rituals or healing, instruments that limit the amount of power being channelled are usually used to prevent an overload of magic.

Control, rather than the lack of power, is often a problem young aethers have to contend with. Obtaining the amount of control to do small tasks like repairing a broken vase or cleaning a desk comes either with natural talent or with copious amounts of training. Once the Initial Magical Inheritance has been undergone, young aethers should have more power under their wings as well as a degree of control that should only grow as they age. Until then, they should probably learn how to do things the manual way or rely on foci.

3. Spirit Weapons

Aethers that are more in tune with their magic have the potential to form spirit weapons. These weapons, as suggested by its name, are often formed by will and spirit into a physical manifestation. They can only be wielded by their owners for obvious reasons and may be used to channel magic or as physical combat weapons. As the aether matures, his or her spirit weapon should evolve, although each weapon is a unique representation of its owner. Potential is one thing, capabilities are another. Not every aether will be able to master the use of his or her spirit weapon.

4. Customs

Aether customs are just as complicated as pureblood wizarding ones.

5. Social Hierarchy

There is a rather large royal family, although it functions more or less as a rather powerful guild. A guild, or House, is an alliance of families brought together under the same banner. Each guild usually has a certain trait or guild secret that has them specialising in certain areas of magic or skills. As a personal example, I have found out that the Ildefonso was known for its brilliance in war magics – spellwork, combat, defence, spirit magics, blood magics, etc. It is common for families to send their offspring to a separate guild to learn from once they have shown particular aptitude in a branch of magic another guild specialises in before they return to their families when they are of age.

Below the royal family are a series of noble families. The heads of these noble families, together with the guild masters, form the Council who serve as a government of sorts to the royal family, who in turn serve the function of discouraging corruptness among the aether leaders.

Naturally, how high a person is up on the social hierarchy would correspond more or less with how high his family or his guild is on the power ladder. On the bright side, the aether community is rather small – even smaller than the wizarding world, at least, with each guild consisting of an average of three families and each family consisting of about 15 people or so. There are 10 aether guilds in total, although one guild is currently defunct and there are several aethers that prefer to remain guildless.

On the downside, that defunct guild is Ildefonso. It was wiped out during the uprising of a certain dark lord Grindelwald when he foiled a powerful summoning. I mean, it probably figures that I really don't have living relations regardless of what I am. The Dursleys do not count.

6. Inter-species relations

The Magical Realm is made up not only of aethers but of several other species termed the 'celestial races' due to their long or indefinite life spans. In the most abundance are the elves (eldars) and aethers. Dragons, phoenixes and magical beasts in human form (referred to as Daemins or Shapeshifters) are not a rare sight and neither are the fae of the Seelie and Unseelie courts. Several smaller creatures accompanied the celestials during their move though obviously not all creatures have left Earth. Wizards are rare, with the only ones around being those who have mated with a member of the realm prior to their complete withdrawal from Earth in the late 1960s.

7. Education

Education of aethers are usually done within the family, the guild or in another guild suited to the individual's talent. Several schools are available for them to attend, where they can get a more holistic but less specialised education. Of notable exception is Mistral Academy of Learning and Survival, which accepts students only upon their passing of strict tests.

8. Technology

In my several months of exploring the Avalon District, I have come to realise that the wizarding world is rather backwards and that the answer to all things in the Magical Realm is magic. There are devices powered by magic that allow for transportation from one location to another in a blink of an eye, for communication across distances that do not call for crouching down in front of a fire with your arse thrust in the air. There is even a function not unlike that of the muggle internet, although it has been up and running for several decades now.

Yet despite these advancements in technology or rather the use of magic in innovative manners, the magical realm has not lost its magic nor its customs and heritage. People still walk around in robes, although of a very much different style than that of the wizarding garb as I know it, and adhere to their traditions which would still take me an eon to learn. I must admit, however, there are similarities between the wizarding and magical worlds.

9. Location and transport

I have not been able to pin-point where exactly the magical realm is and I am not about to go asking for it. Somehow, it seems like a completely different world, although I have come to understand that it is intrinsically linked to Earth anyway. The key to the Avalon district is my only way in. The first time I used it, I had to use three drops of my 'blood', after which it practically infused itself into the back of my hand in the shape of a Jerusalem cross and a rune of wisdom on a shield – the Ildefonso shield, apparently. Since then, the key constructors on Administration Lane have helped me key in the locations to several points in the realm as well as to the portkey room in Gringotts. I do not know how it works beyond the fact that it involves metal magics, but it does so I'm not complaining especially since it is far better than the Floo.

10. Magic

Is fascinating. I have learned and read so much, experimented far more than I probably should have and trained far harder than I have in my two years in Hogwarts. Truth be told, I have never felt better, magically speaking. Inexplicably, magic has _become_ my world and the only thing I can rely on – almost like a constant companion whom I know will never leave me...

_Aindreas Wyatt leaned back against his pillow, quill hanging loosely from his fingers as he stared at the ceiling in silent contemplation. Below him, Goulding was throwing some sort of seedy party in celebration of his mistress' birthday. In front of him was his mother's journal, as well as his own, the ink still fresh on its pages._

* * *

To Be Continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**Of Learning and Survival  
**Chapter 2  
_**Part I: The problem with books  
**__April 1994_

Aindreas sat cross-legged and naked in the middle of a wax-crafted pentagon, amidst a web of runes meticulously laid down in ground wyvern scales. At each point of the formation stood red beeswax candles and teacups of phoenix tears infused with thestral blood, forcibly taken.

Fair skin was stretched taut across tensed muscles and every strand of hair that he possessed stood on end as though electrically charged, moving gently in sync with the currents of magic emanating from the slight teenager. A tear slipped from open emerald-hued eyes, going ignored as he stared unblinkingly into the hypnotic candle flames. He had no need for physical sight to know without singular doubt where and what everything around him was; the sheer awareness roused by the ritual that called upon Magic itself negated all need for his physical senses.

In that instance, there only existed his mind, his magic and the vast world at his fingertips.

No words could describe what he saw and felt. Each breath he took was like a gust of wind in an open meadow and every blink of his eyes the shifting of a heavy velvet veil in a dusty and darkened room. More precious still was the _knowledge_ he now knew was out there, as restless as an open ocean that held within it the unharnessed potential for both good and evil. It was only _just_ out of his reach.

His birth runes were opened for the first time since his initial magical inheritance and they appeared to his mind's eye as beacons of golden light, intricately intertwined beneath his skin. The wyvern scales that had looked rusty orange to his naked eyes were now ablaze with a white fire that did not burn the wood while the candle flames pulsed steadily like beating hearts.

All at once, Aindreas felt humbled and empowered; awed and triumphant. He wanted to immerse himself in the magic, to lose his mind, body and soul completely to the call of its power. Never before had he felt so free and unrestrained to become drunk with the beauty and might of magic.

How could he have gone so long without realising that there was more to the streak of colours people saw in wizarding spells? Suddenly, his past ignorance seemed incomprehensible.

Within his own body, magic flowed like molten gold. Among his belongings, it was littered in a spectacular array of colours that spoke of charms and passive spells woven into various materials. In the air, untapped magic swirled lazily with neither colour nor purpose, merely waiting to be used and moulded by the intent of a spell.

Ever so slowly, Aindreas raised a golden-marked arm and grasped at a current of energy in the air, watching in satisfaction as the magic slipped past Quidditch-callused fingertips to pool in his palm where it shifted gently like the waters of a lake. With careful nudging, tendrils of it morphed into brilliant gold mist before slipping under his skin to merge with the life-sustaining essence within him.

Unbeknownst to him, the corners of his lips had curled skywards in a blissful smile.

It was as though he had just consumed his first meal at Hogwarts after years of being denied proper food; the young being felt sated, full and warm. But he could not get enough of it.

Magic fairly danced with excitement as he lifted his other arm in both supplication and a welcoming embrace. When he was filled to the brim with magic, and only then, he closed his rune-marked eyelids and slipped off into Morpheus' arms, the smile never leaving his lips.

He awoke several hours later when the sky was still dark, struggling to his feet with a pained groan as his legs protested the abuse inflicted upon them when he decided to fall asleep seated on the hard and unforgiving floor. Then he cautiously broke the sequence of the ritual runes, muttered a spell to douse the flames and re-bottled the potent mixture of blood and tears, happily considering his second ritual attempt a fantastic success.

The first, to increase the oxygen count in his magics leading to the brain, was conducted out of a desire to rid him of the tear-wrenching migraines that attacked him with increased ferocity and frequency over the weeks. That there were the side-benefits of a marginally improved memory and concentration was simply a bonus.

This time, however, it was on a whim that the teenager conducted the ritual to summon magic. Typically used to restore drained magical cores, it was a complicated and risky – not to mention potentially stupid – thing to do unsupervised, with the only source of information being an old and somewhat unintelligible book.

But that hardly mattered to him now. He felt strong, albeit rather sleepy, as he finished sweeping up the last of the ritual materials, proving that he had nothing to worry about as he crossed his room and went about his morning ablutions. By the time he was fully dressed, any thought of caution regarding rituals were buried in the recesses of his somewhat messy mind.

It had become somewhat of a methodical ritual in itself for Aindreas to roll out of bed at five in the morning, usually crumpling parchments that he had been poring over the previous night as he did so. His malnourished body had already adjusted itself to the minimal amount of sleep he allowed himself, although Goulding had commented several times that if the lad kept it up, he was going to remain a puny brat till the day he set foot in the coffin.

Still, with the beginnings of regular food intake, the teenager had managed to grow vertically about an inch or so the past year and was at the age where his less-than-imposing stature did not worry him yet. He was only 13, after all.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the aether ducked under the showerhead and let the sting of cold water wash away the last vestiges of his lethargy. Then, as he dried himself off with a towel, the auburn-haired male directed his magic across the room with several waves of his hand, causing books and loose sheaves of paper to stack themselves neatly on the table top. Another wordless spell took care of the moisture not absorbed by the towel before he banished it to a corner and tugged on a pair of plain boxers.

There probably existed actual spells with proper incantations and hand movements, but a month into his exploration of Avalon District, the youth had found that intent and will alone could direct his magic and the form it took. Since then, he had traded '100 Spells for Every Day Living (Not taught in class)' for a book on 'Combat Magics for the Steel-hearted or Desperate'.

Another sharp gesture of his hand flung open the doors to his closet as an undershirt and a pair of form-fitting trousers in a shade of dark grey came floating out. These were followed by a pair of sturdy black leather books that he tucked his pant legs into and laced up tightly. A loose turtleneck of thick, white cotton went over this ensemble, with long sleeves that he pulled a pair of armguards over. These guards were made of blue-dyed dragon hide, which naturally absorbed minor spells and shocks. They covered his palms and the back of his hands but left his fingers free to move as they wished.

Over this he wore a loose robe of a thick and heavy material that he had no name for. Dyed a dark shade of blue, its billowy sleeves reached only slightly past his elbows while the bottom portion of the robe was cut into four strips at the front, back and sides, providing him with a greater ease of movement that cumbersome wizarding robes could not. Finally, he belted it down with a rope of white cloth around his slender waist and swung a winter cloak around his shoulders because the months of May through early August spelled winter in the magical realm.

Where his wizarding garb tended to look elegant and too sophisticated for a boy his age, this outfit was frill-free, practical and warm. With simple silver borders and no intricate embroidery or flashy accessories, Aindreas would blend straight into the average crowd at the Avalon district, instead of sticking out like a sore thumb as he had in his summer wizarding robes the first time he had gone to check the place out.

Fortunately, tailors were not hard to find on the magical island and he had purchased sets of various clothing articles from several shops that he hoped would tide him through the next couple of years as long as he did not grow too much either sideways or upwards. In fact, he soon found that had more of such garb than he had wizarding robes, although that might stem from his lack of desire to let Goulding fleece him a third time round.

Clothing aside, Aindreas also found that the best way to conceal his scar was simply to pack concealer paste over it and charm his fringe to fall to the side. Suffice to say, though he was not surprised, he had not been terribly ecstatic to find that while his eyesight had been restored with the breaking of his mother's blood charms, the pesky scar on his forehead remained right where Voldemort had left it – a painful reminder of the past he was trying to escape from.

In the early part of his wanderings, the teenager had bumped into the problem of having no money to pay for his purchases in the magical realm. This occurred at the key constructors where he had had to persuade them that he was both mentally sound and wanted to key in the location of Britain's wizarding bank.

Attending him was an aether who looked to be several years his senior. Once he had assured himself of the younger being's sanity, the constructor had stared in ill-concealed amazement at his key. For a moment, Aindreas worried that the key was not supposed to meld itself into his flesh. Then the key constructor explained that the shape of the key – the Ildefonso crest – was not one that had been used the past four decades.

Aindreas' worries merely changed topics but hardly abated.

Since then, he kept the key covered up with his armguards and refrained from introducing himself with anything beyond his first name. After learning that he could melt his galleons down at the bank in exchange for azers, the currency used in the realm, he left the establishment with several more destinations programmed into his key and headed straight to the bank.

The rest, as they say, became history.

The young aether had taken the words of Headmistress Cadence to heart and had set about learning as much as he could about his heritage. Within two weeks, he had explored the majority of Avalon District, which was in reality more of an entire island than a group of streets as its name implied. He had been into the bank, shops, apothecaries, eateries and even stumbled into a bar by mistake. He had interacted with different species, including a group of high elves that were formally called eldarin and several foxes and faes, while maintaining outward calm.

Now, as the verdant-eyed youth traced his key with a magically-charged finger and allowed the resulting metal-bound spell to tug him through space in a dizzying whirl of colour, he could not help but marvel at how his life had done an about turn since Dumbledore's betrayal. He was still very much alone in the vast and complicated world, of course, but at least he had some sort of direction in his existence that did not revolve around psychotic wizards old enough to be his great grandparents.

Transition from travelling to arrival was smooth and Aindreas headed promptly towards a nearby eatery once his feet had touched base with the district's ground. Only fairy lights kept the deserted stone-laid streets lit at six in the morning, and several of the little critters came forward to fly circles around him, chattering swiftly at a pitch so high his ears could not hear it. The serene scene was like a balm to his bruised soul as he inhaled the fresh air and felt his spirits lift just by being away from the foul air of Knockturn Alley.

Not for the first time, he considered leaving his wizarding past behind once and for all. But just like every time the thought came up, he dismissed it in the next second. Though he would not admit to it, moving away from the wizarding world altogether was far too big a risk that he was not willing to take just yet. He was enjoying an odd sort of freedom in Knockturn that he did not want to give up yet. Furthermore, he was still conducting business with Gringotts. To move permanently, he reasoned, would be a hassle he did not need to go through.

At some subconscious level he was not aware of, the boy – for at the heart of it all, he was still a child – was simply clinging on to a hope that one day the wizarding world and the people he knew in it would accept him for what he was.

"Hello, Aindreas," a cheerful voice greeted him gaily as he stepped into the quaint café. "Our first Monday customer again."

"Morning, Vyler," the green-eyed teen responded with a slight smile, slipping into a booth as the owner of the eatery approached, wiping his hands on an apron. Vyler was an eldarin, tall and slender but solidly built like most of the elves he had seen around. Hair like spun silver framed a fair oval face and a pair of cool grey eyes, which had an uncanny ability of unnerving anyone who dared to meet his gaze when he was in a less-than-pleasant mood.

"I've just got the oven heated up and Aynsel will be by in a couple of minutes. Can I get you a drink?"

"White hot chocolate, please."

"Certainly," the eldar responded cheerfully, a mischievous twinkle in his pale eyes. "Since you always ask so prettily."

Unable to mitigate the blush that rose to his cheeks, Aindreas ducked his head and busied himself by flipping open a book. For some reason, the older male loved to tease him and it was a hobby he had discovered within minutes of their first meeting. It was generally easier, the redhead had learned, to _not _retort because that only seemed to sharpen the elf's tongue.

However, as he turned his attention to the last chapter of the book on magical theories, he found himself unable focus on the words that he was reading. There was a nagging buzz at the back of his mind, alerting him to the presence of something he could not quite pin down. Annoyed, he glanced around and found his gaze drawn to the back of the cafe where Vyler was preparing his drink, surrounded by half a dozen magic-powered machines.

Blinking, Aindreas noticed that he could _see _wisps of magic floating around, orbiting the eldar and his work station. When he focused harder, the aether found that he could almost make out words and runes amidst each strand of coloured light. In that instant, it was as though he was back at his room in Knockturn Alley, surrounded by complex runes and bright red candles.

A light tinkle of bells and soft footsteps interrupted his scrutiny and the green-eyed teenager snapped his gaze towards the cafe entrance. Another eldar had stepped through the door, a female this time, whose colouring and build were identical to that of her half-brother, Vyler. High elves, Aindreas had found, tended to have a faint glow about them that only became more obvious in the dark. But Aynsel as he saw her right there and then was fairly consumed by a bright neon yellow light.

"Good morning, little aether," she greeted him cheerfully, cancelling the warmth spell she had covered herself in even as she removed her coat that had shielded her from June's chilling winter winds.

Aindreas blinked rapidly at the disappearance of the neon light, shaking his head to clear his vision as he stared up at the eldar, mouth slightly agape.

"Aindreas?"

"Huh?"

"Are you all right?"

"Uhm," the redhead blinked dumbly before regaining enough of his senses to shut his mouth and swing his gaze around to the book that lay uselessly in his lap. Colours swirled before his eyes and under his eyelids even when he shut them. Some were bright, others were dull and still he could sense the colourless currents of magic in the air. "I'm fine. Perfect, really."

Maybe performing a ritual out of a book without supervision or cross-checking it with other sources was not that great of an idea after all. Was this what the book had meant by enhanced sensitivity to magic? It was the only logical explanation at hand. However, as far as he could tell, all there was to it was a fresh migraine waiting to descend upon him.

A fair brow arched upwards as Aynsel eyed the young boy with a hint of scepticism.

"Really?"

"Yes," Aindreas replied faintly, eyes still shut in a futile attempt to block out the onslaught of colour. "It's just a headache."

"You seemed fine a minute ago," Vyler commented as he tipped a thick mint-green liquid into the teenager's chocolate.

With a quiet 'hm' under her breath, Aynsel tossed her cloak over a nearby chair and gathered magic into her palm as she approached the aether. But bright forest-green eyes snapped open even before she had taken her second step, focusing on her hand with odd intensity.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, breathing becoming ragged even as both of Aynsel's brows curved up in little frowns of their own.

"Performing a diagnostic spell, child," she murmured soothingly, voice soft and infused with a dose of voice magic to calm the uncharacteristically panicked youth in front of her.

But all that served was to cause Aindreas' forehead to crease into a frown as he hissed fiercely through gritted teeth. "Don't call me that." Suddenly, he felt like the orphaned Harry Potter again, held under the patronizing gaze of Albus Dumbledore that made his skin prickle in revulsion just recalling it.

The cafe fell silent, save for the aether's increasingly heavy breathing. Vyler had paused mid-stride to shoot the redhead a strange look. Neither his sister nor himself could help the astonishment they felt from the display the normally placid youth. In the half-year that they had known him, the aether had been a quiet, almost shy, regular customer whose calm and studious personality had grown on the half-siblings. He seemed disturbingly introspective and had offered them no information other than his name, but had tentatively referred to them as his friends before.

He usually ate breakfast at their cosy eatery before the library opened and was always eager to pick their brains for information regarding the eldarin race. Though he had refused to tell them his family or guild name, Aynsel suspected that he was from one of the larger guilds for his clothes, though plain, were very well made. His manners were always commendable. In fact, this was the first time the youth had deviated from the formal polite demeanour that most aethers subscribed to in front of strangers.

"I apologise," Aindreas murmured, ducking his head in mortification as he slowly realised what he had just done. "My head hurts. Don't really need a diagnostic spell to tell me that."

Shrugging the apology off with a pat on his shoulder, Aynsel dismissed the magic in her hand and moved away to keep her cloak in the back room, re-emerging with an apron around her waist as Vyler placed the cup of hot white chocolate before their customer. Aindreas had injured her pride, he knew, but he was not in the best of positions to correct his wrongs at that moment.

"Drink up," Vyler urged, taking a seat opposite of him as he propped his sharp chin on the palm of his hand and overtly studied the other being. The aether had turned quite pale beneath his tan.

"What did you put in it?"

"Headache medicine," the eldar responded slowly after a short pause. The potion that he used had neither colour nor scent to it once mixed with other liquids, although it retained its minty taste. One as young as the lad should not have been able to tell of the addition just by sight alone.

Aindreas had not even lifted it off the table yet, much less tasted it.

Murmuring his thanks, the youth downed the steaming cup as fast as could, replacing the mug only when he had drunk every drop he could. It was with a sigh of relief that he noted that the potion dulled the colours of the shifting streams of magic, allowing him to look up at Vyler without wincing. There was glowing beauty and then there was _glowing _beauty. Only one of them actually hurt.

"Are you on drugs?"

"Huh?" Aindreas uttered for the second time in ten minutes, although the noise stemmed from confusion this time around.

Vyler merely shifted his chair to study him closely, discerning eyes noting the aether's dilated pupils, erratic breathing and the odd flush to his cheeks.

"Did you," the silver-haired being elaborated, his tone carefully neutral. "Take any narcotic such as troll grass or fairy dust that are intended to induce feelings that make the person imbibing it hypersensitive to their surroundings, thereby making them feel like they are on top of the world?"

"No?"

Twin emerald orbs stared back at Vyler with something akin to incredulity despite the fact that his response came out sounding more like a question than the vehement denial that was floundering somewhere in the recesses of his throbbing brain. Did he _look _like he felt on top of the world? Naturally, his mental question went unanswered as cool grey eyes that looked as bright as twin stars to Aindreas' dysfunctional sight merely gazed back at him in silent consideration before the eldar lifted both shoulders in a casual shrug.

"Aynsel's already baking your antelope pie if the smell is anything to go by," he commented idly as he stood. "Maybe you should skip your library trip today."

"Maybe," agreed Aindreas, glancing away from the older male who was starting to glow brighter with each moment spent in close proximity to him.

Or maybe not, countered the slender redhead a mere hour later as he jogged up the steps to the district's library with four large books in one arm. Whatever Vyler had put into his drink was still working its magic, keeping the impending migraine at bay for now. Hopefully he would be able to find a solution to his predicament before the potion wore off.

Unfortunately, the teen still found himself staring at random wisps of light he was sure that other people were not seeing. On a whim, he reached out to disturb a current of magic in the air and watched in fascination as it merely curled about his fingers, its flow never quite ceasing or breaking.

He was unsure of how long he had stood there, unmoving until the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted the youth's rapture and he glanced, startled, at the house elf standing by the library doors.

"The library is open," it told him solemnly. "Master said to let you know."

In the next instant, it had disappeared with a loud pop and Aindreas was left with a growing blush on his cheeks. He must have looked like a right fool, standing on the steps with an arm stretched out into thin air. Thankfully, the heat in his cheeks abated by the time he stepped through the large double doors.

The library was a magnificent place, although such a description fell painfully short in describing its grandeur. Each wall, pillar and bookshelf housed carvings of a vast array of magical creatures, from the proud Pegasus to the fiery dragons, each one detailed and intricate to the point of being life-like. Done up in white and gold, the building was filled to its rafters with books and though the structure had stood for more than a millennia, its interior and exterior fairly gleamed in the early morning light. Not a speck of dirt was to be seen – a testament to the hard work of the librarians' house elves.

It took Aindreas' breath away the first time he set foot in the Library. The librarians had watched the aether warily as he toured the area, clearly having never been there before as he gazed in wonder at each picture, expecting them to move at any moment.

Though at the time he had not known he was being closely watched, he later learned from one of the house elves that it was only when he turned his attention to the main purpose of the library that they relaxed a little. Aindreas did not know why they were worried. Having seven storeys of books towering over his diminutive form was kind of hard to ignore, really.

Hermione would have labelled it 'Heaven'.

The building was semi-circular, with the librarians' desk and entrance doors acting as the centre point and five main aisles the length of the radius creating four sections of bookshelves per level. The further one moved along the aisles, the longer the bookshelves became, curving out till the ends met the circumference of the semi-circle.

Moving over to the librarians' desk, Aindreas offered the one on duty a polite smile before handing over the books he had borrowed the week before. The librarian, a scholarly-looking vampire, flipped through each book in a quick search for damages before performing a quick wandless spell. It was with interest that the aether watched the severing of faint strands of blue magic that had linked him to each book.

"Good to go," the vampire informed him, peering briefly at him through frameless spectacles as he handed the books over to his house elf – the one Aindreas had met on the steps – which promptly disappeared to shelve them. House elves, Aindreas had found, required the magic of another being to survive for prolonged periods of time. If they were to be left without a master for too long, one would notice that the diminutive creatures would start to lose their powers. This, he had also belatedly realised rather grumpily, was why Dobby's performance of magic at the Dursleys registered at the ministry as his use of magic the year before last.

In the magical realm, to be bonded to a librarian to work in a library was a great honour to them. Some of the realm's inhabitants, in fact, referred to them separately as library elves, who tended to speak better and behave in a less servile manner than those who worked unseen in households. It was rumoured that the head librarian's elf was somewhat of a linguist, fluent in Elvish, Aethish, Latin, Italian, French, English, German and was just starting on Asian languages.

"Thank you," he said, raising his killing-curse green eyes to meet the dark ones of the librarian's through his lenses. "Would you mind directing me to the section on ritual magics?"

"Fourth floor, third section, fifth row from the front," was the ready reply before the vampire promptly proceeded to ignore his existence, far more fascinated by whatever tome he had partially concealed on his lap.

It took him a little over an hour to find a book on rituals affecting the senses, if only because it was titled 'Magical Rituals'. It could not get vaguer than that, Aindreas thought with an exasperated roll of emerald orbs as he neatly pulled the worn book from its place and headed over to the potions section to grab a book on healing potions.

Had someone told him a year ago that he would willingly seek potions knowledge, he would have doubted the sanity of that person. Now, ignorance was something Aindreas no longer wanted to deal with and he determinedly crushed the conjured image of Ron declaring him to be the second Hermione.

He did not want to need to have anyone tell him who and what he was or was not. Not the Dursleys, not Albus Dumbledore and certainly not the Hogwarts students whose views would have placed him in jail or a mental asylum had they had a shred of truth in them. He will be whoever and whatever he said he was and that would be the end of it.

But first, the young aether thought with a spark of irritation as he stumbled over one of the library's wards that appeared to him as a cloud of maroon mist, he needed to deal with the problem of his malfunctioning sight.

* * *

_**Part II: Indistinguishable reality  
**__May 1994_

There was fear in the air and he could taste it. It tickled his senses, excited his blood, and made his heart race in time with the dry heaves of the man who lay broken at his feet. Well, maybe not quite broken yet, he amended as dark eyes lifted to stare defiantly into his own. But certainly well on his way to becoming a broken doll with every exhilarating piece of torture inflicted on him.

A serpentine tongue darted out to lick at lips twisted in a sadistic and lascivious grin that spoke of unrivalled glee as he flicked his wand, driving screws a further notch into his victim's spine and ears. Bloodied lips parted in a soundless scream, a shredded throat no longer permitting more than a hoarse whimper to be emitted, though even that seemed to set his throat on fire.

It was a pity. Those lovely screams had sounded so delightful echoing off the stone walls of his Keep, like music to the ears.

A sharp slash of his wand wrenched the screws in his ears out in a gut-wrenching instance and drove the ones in his spine home. Blood spilled forth and the battered body convulsed on the ground, his back arching at several odd angles almost at once.

"How long?" Lord Voldemort asked, bony fingers twirling his accursed wand as he leaned back to rest comfortably against his self-fashioned throne. "How long since your heart strayed and your loyalty wavered, little Prince?"

His tone was mocking and his question cruel for how could a man driven with pain till he was both deaf and dumb respond to the hissed whisper?

But a startlingly pale face lifted from the heap of black robes, almost the colour of the mask he had on a mere hour ago when he answered the call of a psychotic, demented and cold-blooded being. Dark eyes focused painfully slowly onto red orbs, before staring defiantly into them - a devil's eyes in the midst of sadistic revelry that twisted and tainted the souls of those who even dared near it.

A keening, high-pitched sound that could only be identified as Voldemort's laughter sounded above laboured breaths as thin lips curled back and spat a thick wad of blood at the hem of his clock where countless of cowards - some loyal and others not - had knelt at and kissed with words of fervent praise.

The ghost of a pained howl whispered through the room, a strangled sound that reverberated in the heavy air as strips of skin was peeled from his back with a flaying curse, spraying his soaked and tattered robes with another fresh layer of blood. Truth be told, Severus Snape was surprised he had any left in him, what with the pool he was lying in. When the sound subsided, a wave of dark amusement rose like welcomed bile in the back of the dark lord's throat in response to the grin that the dark-haired wizard flashed at his tormentors. His teeth were stained with blood from bleeding gums and several of his teeth had been knocked out. But the grin was feral and spoke volumes about the strength of the mind that no one could breach.

Voldemort always knew that there was a reason he favoured the little turncoat so much – His dignity, skill and love of all things dark made him a rather desirable companion to have around. Perhaps he should not do away with him too swiftly.

The man was like a work of art; Pale skin marred by blade stabs, charred in places by blood boiling hexes and healed muggle gunshot wounds. The whites of his eyes were pink from being pumped full of pleasure potions and blows to the head that had probably damaged his corneas. Salt water in fresh wounds and the removal of strips of smooth flesh laid neatly by his side before he was force fed them tied the entire image together rather nicely.

It was not too bad for a Work In Progress.

His precious followers were rather imaginative when it came to such things, though they were still being rather restrained. Perhaps it was those dark eyes that had frightened many a student in the darkened hallways of Hogwarts. Or maybe it was that mind of steel that had withheld massive amounts of legilimancy pressures that had him held in such high esteemed among the few present in the room.

Noting the pathetic number of people in the room caused a flicker of irritation on his sickly, translucent skin, which was quickly dispelled by carelessly splintering the bones in Severus' right hand. No matter that the number of his followers had been reduced so drastically since he was felled by the infant Potter. It was no small comfort that he now had the makings of an inner circle that he could trust with the more important aspects of his plans. Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew would, of course, be rewarded for their contributions to the successful resurrection ritual, but that could wait till after he was done with the Man-Who-Can-No-Longer-Brew.

He did so like hyphenated titles.

Seeing Severus lying limp once more, the wizarding world's most feared wizard gestured for Macnair to revive the dark-haired man. This was done without fanfare and the potions master was dumped unceremoniously and none too gently into a conjured tub of salted water – the fifth one of the night. He came to with a gurgled protest, sputtering and coughing even as copious tears of pain was shed and mingled with the solution. It looked like Rosier had clipped off a portion of that sharp tongue too.

The distinct tang of revulsion that resulted from that observation cut sharply through Voldemort's feelings of merriment. A further wave of panic that threatened to drown him rose up and towered above his senses as Macnair proceeded to draw his wand-turned-knife through the crotch of what was left of Severus' pants. It caught him so off guard, the dark lord visibly stiffened and gasped, a scaled hand reaching up to grasp at his stolen but beating heart that had sped up in its pumping in the last dozen seconds or so.

"My Lord?" Lucius Malfoy, ever so attentive, it made him _sick._

_What?_

Macnair was now cackling almost maniacally as he began to methodically dissect his once-comrade's penis.

_Stop it!_

There was a loud crack and Voldemort straightened in relief as a previously unnoticed weight in his head and chest disappeared altogether. It was also in that instance that a small wiry body appeared in mid air and launched itself at Macnair, toppling him over and away from the battered body of a man that had once upon a time stood proud and tall. A short scuffle ensued, which ended with the unfamiliar figure lying on the ground and clutching at his head and face in what appeared to be agony.

The Death Eaters became restless among their ranks as they eyed the new apparation, unsure of what to do next. Voldemort paid them no mind as he stood swiftly from his seat and moved towards the groaning figure. Macnair looked fit to eat a yeti, the dark lord noted with a spark of amusement, but the man dared not seek revenge on the one who had dared interrupt his gentle ministrations on Severus without his lord and master's command.

Prodding the fallen figure with the tip of his boot, Voldemort rolled the interloper over. Ruby eyes gazed down at the young boy whose fingers were scrabbling desperately at his head in a futile attempt to abate the pain he was apparently in. Probably around the age of 10, the child's pale skin was a stark contrast to auburn hair and the blood smeared across his cheek – no doubt from Macnair's blade. He made for a pathetic figure and the newly resurrected dark lord was of the mind to kill him. But his sudden, inexplicable appearance and the memory of that commanding voice in his mind kept him from uttering the feared words.

If he were more human than beast, Voldemort would have frowned. Now, he merely stared unwaveringly at the moaning child, as though he could unravel the puzzle by the sheer force of his gaze.

Was he Severus' child? Perhaps a bastard son that he had sequestered away from the prying eyes of the world?

Lids split open and his ruby gaze met hauntingly familiar orbs of emerald as the boy glared hatefully at him through his apparent pain.

"_Crucio_."

The spell was uttered before his mind caught up with his mouth and Voldemort watched with satisfaction as the boy's pain was renewed and multiplied. The lovely scream of agony somewhat soothed the anger he felt at being reminded of his child nemesis. Harry Potter had dark hair, smooth tanned skin and common features. He also owned a pair of brilliant verdant eyes that Voldemort would gladly gouge out just so that he could frame its beauty. Now here he had another pair of beautiful emerald eyes that could substitute Potter perfectly. With a few glamours and a change from the odd garb the boy was clothed in, the wizard could enact his plans for the Boy-Who-Lived on the boy before him. It would make for good entertainment, if nothing else.

Lifting the spell, Voldemort turned and strolled back to his seat. By the time he sat himself, the boy was pulling himself into a crouching position. Though breathing heavily, the dark wizard noted that he no longer seemed to be in the agony he was previously in.

"Who are you, Severus' little saviour?" A smirk pulled at deformed lips and his tone was mocking for Severus was far from being saved. Apparition wards were in place and the unconscious man was in no condition to move. Not to mention the fact that he was talking to a 10-year-old boy.

Pale lips remained pressed into a thin line and the child did not seem inclined to answer as he slowly rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily even as a quick glance was darted towards the comatose potions master on the ground next to him.

Then those impossibly green eyes were lifted to stare unflinchingly at him and Voldemort was reminded of the weight inside of his head, like a nagging conscience that he did not need. He raised the wand – Severus' wand – and prepared to hex what little spunk he had left out of him.

But the boy beat him to it.

"_Die_."

A thick beam of green light, the same shade as those piercing eyes, burst forth from slender fingers, startling the dark wizard into leaping away from his claimed throne. Stone, wood and rubble exploded with an impressive bang as master and servants alike hit the floor to save themselves from flying debris caused by the destructive nature of the killing curse.

Only Lucius remained standing, casting a shield over his master with a worried glint in those glacial eyes that Voldemort was oh so fond of. But those pretty eyes were hardly enough to soothe the rage within him as he hauled himself to his feet and snatched the blonde's wand from him. His followers were all, without exception, incompetent fools! Angry red eyes swept across the destroyed hall, noting the absence of both boy and traitor with a furious snarl as he whirled upon the bunch of grovelling idiots who called him master, hell bent on causing them pain to assuage his fury.

Where he sat just minutes before in comfortable glory was a large crater the size of a small room – a testament of the power of the killing curse cast by that slight figure of a boy.

* * *

_**Part III: Epiphanies  
**__May 1994_

Were it not for the laboured breathing and the painful rise and fall of his chest, Aindreas would have thought that Severus Snape had succumbed to the call of death. Not that he would blame the wizard. The dour man lay spread-eagled on his bed, a far cry from his usual forbidding presence. Skin had turned a chalky grey as copious amounts of blood seeped from torn flesh and stained the white sheets. For precious few minutes, the young aether stared dumbly down at the potions master, mentally scrambling to regain his bearings.

The last month had seen the teenager lying in that very same bed, immensely troubled by his dysfunctional sight. On some days, he could not even lift himself out of bed because of the pain from magically-induced migraines. Whenever too much magic was used around him, his world became a blur of colour and the dark-haired child would lose what tenuous hold he had on reality. Sometimes, it was as though he was dangerously close to drowning in Magic's call. So he avoided both Diagon Alley and Avalon District unless he absolutely had to, choosing instead to hole himself up in his room to pore over what books he had in search of an answer to his problem. When cabin fever became too much for him to bear, he embarked on day trips to muggle England where he could safely lose himself in his thoughts while drinking in the sights he had been deprived of the moment Voldemort bludgeoned his way into his life, wrecking it in the name of his dubious ideals.

He was in the middle of yet another night of restless slumber when the nightmare came upon him. Witnessing the inhumane and cruel act of one wizard turning on another made him sick to the stomach but he found that he could not look away from the torture of his ex-professor. So the cranky potions teacher was a spy, most possibly for Albus Dumbledore, whom Aindreas now thought of with an unhealthy dose of anger, revulsion and hurt. But no matter which master the Slytherin truly served, he simply did not deserve the suffering he was being put through. No one would deserve it – a quick death would have been preferred.

As minutes ticked by and Voldemort's glee grew, bile rose in Aindreas' throat. It was the first time that he did not see Severus Snape as the old bat whose sole aim in life was to fail him in potions and make his life miserable. Rather, he was merely a mortal torn by war and by the cruelty of his own race. The younger being could not help the pity he felt and could not help the tears that fell freely on the dark-haired man's behalf. If only he could reach out and end his suffering for him...

It suddenly dawned on Aindreas how much he hated Voldemort. Not in the way an angry and angst-filled teenager would. Rather, it was deep-seated hate entrenched in his gut, for what the monster had done to his parents, to Ginny, and to Merlin knew how many other Severus Snapes out there. In that moment, the aether would have gladly killed him without an ounce of guilt to hinder him.

Anger bubbled over, and the fair-skinned youth did not realise that he had moved from a nightmare to actually materialising at the scene as he shoved McNair away from his fallen victim. Pain invaded his senses, and the pervasive agony from Voldemort's _crucio_ was so sharp, the migraines from the previous weeks seemed like mere ant bites in comparison. But as it was lifted, the world suddenly became much clearer and his vision was no longer hindered by the bright flash of colours. It was the least of his worries right then, though.

Aindreas did not know how or why it was possible for the dark lord to be alive again – not as an adult version of the teenager he had met in the chamber of secrets, but in the body of a hideous monster that correctly reflected the corrupt soul of the wizard. To a large extent, the aether was sure he did not even want to know what Voldemort had done. Concerned eyes were drawn instead to the fallen figure of a man that had once stood so imposingly in front of his cauldron. Revenge had had to wait.

Now, however, as he stood staring down at the bleeding man on his bed, the auburn-haired being did not know how to even start saving the obviously dying wizard. Well, he supposed he should die trying since Snape had so graciously saved him during the first year fiasco.

Gathering his magic, the pre-pubescent teenager wasted no more time in opening a door to Avalon, right in front of the pharmacy.

"We're closed right now, young man," a voice politely informed him from behind the counter even before he had taken more than three steps into the shop. "You'll have to come back tomorrow."

Swinging around to stare at the shop keeper, Aindreas stared unblinkingly at him for a couple of minutes and allowed the furred daemin to take in his bloody appearance. Certainly, none of the blood on his robes was his but the sensitive nose of the being twitched and a frown creased his forehead in something akin to concern.

"It's urgent," the redhead said quietly, just to drive the point home. "He's dying."

* * *

**_Part IV: Repaid debts  
_**_May 1994_

Sunlight filtered through the dirt-stained window, casting a soft glow on the occupants of the room. Lids fluttered slowly at first, the first signs of waking, but slammed shut as his brow creased heavily in a pained frown.

A sharp ache seemed to emanate from every point of his sore body, although Severus could smell the distinct odour of medicinal potions. An attempt to lift his arm left him hissing in pain and the wizard realised that beneath the thin sheet that covered him to his torso, he was very much naked save for the bandages wrapped around various portions of his body. Panic rose up like the effervescence of a failed potion, threatening to spill over the sides of the cauldron even as he slammed a lid over it, courtesy of his occlumency skills.

Death had not claimed him yet then, if the pain was anything to go by. More importantly, however, he was no longer under the care of his darker master – Voldemort would never place a traitor on such good and clean sheets, after all. Much less allow him to be tended to by a healer who would undo the art work crafted by his more loyal servants.

He had to know where he was and who had brought him there. The last memories his mind could recall were centred on pain, insane red eyes and a blinding green light. Thankfully, years of living in Slytherin and of serving both sides of a long, drawn-out war had ingrained in the man a strong sense of self-preservation. So he lay there, unable to move, feigning sleep and debating his next course of action.

After countless of years of nervous trepidation, of fear and deceit and determined survival, of staying on his toes and staying strong, he had finally been found out by the dark lord. He was not entirely sure how that came to pass, but there was relief to be found in that; Albus would no longer view him as a useful asset to have around and he could finally leave the world and its painful restraints behind. He had always, however, assumed that his darker master would take that decision off of his hands. A dry chuckle formed in his chest but was muted before it could even reach his throat. He ought to be dead, Severus realised belatedly, though being suicidal or melodramatic had never and would never be a characteristic of his. It would, indubitably, have made things so much easier for him though.

A cautious sweep of his magic told him that there were spells weighing him down, disallowing the movements of his limbs. Casting his senses further outwards, Severus' sensitive nose picked up a distinctly unpleasant odour covered vaguely by the strong painkilling potion that had no doubt been applied to his wounds. Sharp ears twitched, almost imperceptibly as they registered the steady breathing of another person in the room, slow and even, probably asleep. Ever so slowly, lids parted to reveal dark eyes as he turned his head to the side and caught sight of the room's second occupant whose presence he had missed in his initial panic.

The sun's rays seemed to set fire to the auburn hair that brushed the top of his shoulders, framing delicate childish features and pale skin. In that light, the child was clearly only slightly older than 10, and far too slight for his age. Dark circles framed eyes that were shut, appearing like bruises that marred the otherwise unblemished skin. Adding it all up, the runt looked like a skinny, underfed and unhealthy boy that could definitely do with some proper food and sleep. Surely this was not the person tending to him. Surely this was not his saviour. Though there were gaping holes in his memories when he had blacked out during his torture, Severus _knew_ how Macnair worked. Nothing short of a miracle or a highly skilled mediwizard could have brought him back from the brink of death.

Almost as though the boy could hear his thoughts; eyelids parted without fuss to reveal a pair of stunning green eyes that Severus could spot even from his uncomfortable position on the bed. The lad blinked several times in what he would assume was surprise, before standing fluidly from the lotus position he had been seated in. strange blue-grey robes fell neatly into place around his legs as he wordlessly took the necessary few steps towards the bed.

Obsidian met brilliant jade unflinchingly and the boy glanced away first, placing a cool hand against his forehead in an attempt to gauge his body temperature. Had he been his usual self, Severus would have sneered in disdain. What an utterly muggle action.

Still, he remained silent, watching the boy with an unreadable expression as he began to meticulously unravel the bandage on his arm. Fighting back a wince at the sharp pain this engendered, Severus occupied his thoughts with observations of his apparent caretaker. Mentally adding five years to his initial assessment to the boy's age, the potions master noted the aged look that lurked in the depths of his eyes and in the downturned corners of his lips. Up close, he seemed to be ill or recovering from an illness, if the pallor of his skin was anything to go by. But lips were set in a determined line as the redhead re-applied medication to his flesh, stripped of its skin, before carefully wrapped it up in fresh gauze.

This went on from one arm to the other, to his legs, his stomach, torso and groin. Severus was only thankful that the boy did not seemed inclined towards making polite talk and the relative silence of the room was a welcome respite from the memory of his own screams, ringing in his ears. The process took upward of an hour and when he was done, the redhead banished the bandages with a wave of his hand and in an impressive show of wandless magic.

"You almost died," the boy seemed to feel the need to let him know. He spoke calmly and without inflection as he carefully put away glass vials and various paraphernalia in a leather bag. "The burns, cuts and flesh wounds have been healed, although the fresh skin is taking its time to grow and is thus highly sensitive at the moment. I have managed to restore your hearing, but only just, and your re-grown and replaced bones need time to settle, hence the immobilisation spells. I managed to stop your crazy friend before he did any lasting damage to your groin, although I cannot guarantee that it will function as normal. If you get what I mean.

"Your throat was a tricky piece of work and though I think I have healed most of the damage, I don't think you should try speaking until you have seen a certified healer. Aside from that, I have numbed the pain with whatever potions were necessary, although I am sure that you're still feeling most of it. Nothing much either of us can do about it though, so just suck it up. Better alive and in pain than dead." Here, the boy offered him a wry twist of his lips. "Though you probably don't see it that way."

Damned right he did not.

"Get some sleep," the teenager advised him, a strange look in vivid eyes. "I want you healed and out of my bed as soon as possible."

With that, the green-eyed child devil slipped out of the room and left Severus to his pain, whirlwind thoughts and more questions than he cared to count.

* * *

_**Part V: Naming the devil  
**__June 1994_

_Dear Harry,_

_Know firstly that I love you unconditionally and with no boundaries. Know secondly that your father does so too._

_Life cannot have been easy for you, although I pray with all my heart that you will have had the chance to have a wonderful and fulfilling childhood, with or without us by your side. I apologise if I have left before my time and I apologise if this has caused you unnecessary grief. Sometimes, the fates work in unfathomable and inexplicable ways and us lesser beings can only follow without questioning. Since you are reading this letter, I can only assume that you have finished reading the diaries of my childhood days and have come to the realization that you, like me, are an aether and not a wizard. Looking at you now, so preciously safe in your crib, I admit to being unable to gauge your reaction to this. But trust me when I say that I have little choice in this matter._

_In such a tumultuous time, with us in danger of succumbing to the mortal call of death at any moment, your father and I feel that is necessary to make arrangements for you in case we meet an early demise. Having the fidelius charm allows us to sleep better at night, but we never know if little Peter will ever be found out by the dark lord. Hence, we have placed blood charms on you, using James' blood as an anchor. This will allow you to grow up looking like your father, rather than an aether. Assuming ministry laws have not changed by then, this would save you from a certain amount of prosecution from the prejudices of the wizarding world. The only way these charms can be broken is if you or another of our kind intentionally do so or if Magic demands it of you. If at all possible, keep your head down, son. I have proven that aethers can masquerade quite safely as regular witches with a little care. Don't go out looking for others of our kind if it puts you in danger of discovery. Trust no one with this secret, for human betrayal is not something easily borne. I speak from personal experience and have kept this from all but your father. Do not think of me as paranoid; I am practical and careful._

_Your name is Harry Potter, after James' beloved godfather. But in my heart I have also named you Aindreas in hopes that you will grow to be a strong man and warrior with your heart and mind in the right place. Girlish fantasies also make this name seem to me a lot more aether-like than 'Harry' (though both are beautiful names). My son, I pray with every fibre in my being that you will live to grow old and carry on the Potter name. Grow up well, grow up right, keep yourself within the light._

_With all my love,_

_Mum_

Tapered fingers traced the inked words on the back cover of his mother's last diary before Aindreas carefully shut it and hugged it close to his chest. Out of habit, he glanced over to where his unlikely patient lay sleeping and idly studied the comatose form of his ex-potions professor. He knew from his mother's writings that the dour man was not a pleasant one. He also knew that Severus' betrayal of the prophecy to his dark master had led to the deaths of his loving parents. But, the redhead reflected, no one deserved the pain that Severus's dark peers had inflicted on him. Especially, one should note, if said person had tried his best to make amends for his follies, putting his life on the line and subjecting himself to the manipulations of two masters.

Aindreas was too preoccupied to perform any form of misguided revenge today anyway; He was only glad that the potions and salves from the magical realm were more potent than those from the wizarding one. Careful instructions from the puzzled pharmacist had proved invaluable to the child who had zero knowledge of healing, and even less practical experience. All things considered, Severus Snape was one hell of a lucky bastard; Even if his bandages were sloppy and his healer had completely atrocious bedside manners, he was still alive.

Luck also seemed to have bestowed a boon on Aindreas as well.

Since his unintended rescue mission, the migraine that had been Aindreas' annoyingly insistent companion had ceased to pay him house visits. In its place was the dull throb of the aftereffects of the cruciatus curse, which the aether saw as the lesser of two pains. It had allowed him to resume his visits to Avalon and return to his studying efforts, although he was becoming increasingly frustrated by the lack of direction in his studies. Even with the volume of reading that he was doing, many things that he knew theoretically, he could not perform practically. Either because he had failed or because he was unable to try for fear of blowing up Knockturn Alley or killing himself prematurely. But all he could do, really, was keep reading and hope that school would rectify his problems in the following years to come.

He also embarked on a mission to find out more about his family and clan, but had squeezed gruff Ironheart dry of information and Avalon's occupants did not seem willing to speak about it – some were affronted that he had even asked and after more than three scathing replies, the teenager ceased his efforts. He had managed to get a simple gist of the circumstances of the extinction of the guild from books, but strangely enough none of them went into any detail. The burning desire to know about his kin had not abated over the weeks, though, and Aindreas filed it to the back of his mind for future perusal with great reluctance.

'_Water.'_

Shaking his thoughts from the forefront of his mind like a cat shaking raindrops off its fur, Aindreas slipped the diary into his charmed shelf and rose to attend to his patient. Severus had not attempted to speak verbally since the incident but had, apparently, felt the need to rupture the shared silence. When the silky mental voice had interrupted him whilst reading a particularly entertaining account of the last goblin wars with the wizards, the aether had nearly torched the injured wizard and had thrown a fit worthy of Dudley Dursley when he realised that Severus could read his mind. Upon learning that it was merely a mental form of communication and not a mental invasion, the redhead had calmed down and, ignoring the condescending sneer reflected in dark irises, returned to his book, pointedly ignoring the man.

Since then, however, he had gotten used to the short messages of fragmented thoughts from Severus, which were usually demands for sustenance or entertainment in the form of charming a book to hover above his face. The two males had settled into a taciturn but comfortable silence and Goulding had not even suspected that his run-down shop house was sheltering an extra head.

As the slender redhead carefully dripped the clear liquid onto and past dry lips, Severus stared unabashedly up at him and swallowed only when it felt necessary. A shredded throat would take more than a couple of potions and good night's rest to cure, while his broken body might never recover at all. The sallow-skinned wizard ached to brew a potion again and cast charms with the wand that the thrice-damned Voldemort was holding hostage (Merlin forbid him to have broken it!). But looking up into those hooded eyes reminded Severus sharply of the fact that the little hope he held of resuming a life as a wizard stemmed from the actions of this slip of a boy whose familiar verdant eyes held as much pain as the pair of eyes that he saw when he looked in the mirror; dark, despairing and desperate.

* * *

To Be Continued…


	3. Chapter 3

**Of Learning and Survival  
**Chapter 3

_**Part I: Happy Birthday**__  
July 31st, 1994._

He turned 14 without a fuss, with only Ironheart's perfunctory well-wishes from Gringotts to indicate that the day was any different from the rest of the calendar year. It was like turning 13 all over again, with emerald orbs staring out his bedroom window for an hour past midnight until the teenager accepted the fact that neither Hedwig nor a flying car of Weasley children were going to show up outside his guard post. As he slipped mutely under the covers of his bed (a transfigured scarf), Aindreas glanced over at his patient's bed and was startled to see Snape sitting up and staring straight at him with dark eyes that glittered in the faint moonlight.

"Sorry," Aindreas frowned, hastily moving towards the silent, immobilised man to settle him into bed. It had completely slipped his mind to put the wizard back into a position of repose after he had fed him earlier in the evening. "You should have said something when I forgot."

'_Preoccupied.'_

"A little," Aindreas shrugged, not even pausing to second guess his interpretation of the single-word explanation as he tugged the covers gently over the thin body. "Was throwing a small pity party for myself."

The aether did not elaborate and the potions master did not ask.

Both were asleep in minutes.

When Severus next woke up, the little redhead boy was seated at the makeshift desk by his equally makeshift bed, scribbling furiously in a bound journal and pausing only occasionally to make a reference to one of the many books by his side. The professor in him wished that he could say that seeing such a hardworking schoolboy was a common sight, while wondering where the boy was doing his schooling seeing that he was not a Hogwarts boy. For all intents and purposes, a young teenager living by himself in what could only be an attic of a shophouse was not an ordinary occurrence. In the past two weeks of his convalesce, the dark-haired wizard had not seen hide or hair of any adult in the sparsely furnished space. The boy hardly left his side, leaving only for a few hours each day and coming back with food, books or both. Unlike most teenagers who hated being cooped up indoors, the boy did nothing else but read, write, sleep and mope when he was not tending to his healing injuries or giving him embarrassing sponge baths. Such a lifestyle was out of the ordinary. It seemed almost like his.

The potions master was not a nosy man by nature. But lying on his back for days on end, with only a taciturn stranger for company and the occasional fascinating book made Severus' brain ache from the sheer inactivity. So he reached out with his mind magics and gave his little saviour a mental prod, satisfied to watch as startled grin eyes snapped up to meet his gaze. The yet unnamed teenager immediately set his quill aside and slipped over to his bedside to begin their morning ritual. Without instruction or further prodding, the redhead helped him to sit up before methodically checking the bandages and wraps, humming subconsciously in approval at the rate of healing that was underway.

'_Name.'_

"Huh?" Not one of the most eloquent responses ever. Severus did not sneer, however, choosing instead to stare steadily at the surprised youth. The seconds ticked laboriously by before the boy coughed and bent to peer at a gash in his thigh. "Aindreas."

What an utterly pretentious name for a boy who was obviously not from the upper echelons of society. Severus wisely kept the thought to himself, although he could not quite hide the twitch of his lips that would have formed a disdainful lip curl were it not for the fact that the boy – _Aindreas –_decided to prod at the wound none-too-gently. He let out a pained hiss but received an unsympathetic glance in return.

'_Snape.'_

Aindreas blinked three times at him, dark lashes fluttering against fair skin before dry lips quirked upwards in a strange knowing smile.

"A pleasure to meet you, Snape."

The tone was sardonic but not impolite. Severus could live with it.

'_School.'_

"Homeschooled," the teenager shrugged, catching on to his patient's intentions. He turned to grab some murtlap essence to soak the bandages in, making sure not to spill a single drop.

'_Parents.'_

"Dead."

'_Guardians.'_

"Didn't want me."

'_Why?'_

Hypnotising green eyes glared sharply at him, but Severus held his ground and stared unflinchingly back at him. For several long moments neither of them spoke, neither wanting to yield to the other. It was an invasive, personal question but the wizard did not care. Why should he?

"Why did you choose to follow Voldemort?"

Severus shut up.

[]

The Hogwarts term would be starting soon, Aindreas realised, absent-mindedly fingering the pages of his worn journal where he had sketched out a rough calendar. Snape had a month left to heal if he wanted to make it back in time. Assuming Dumbledore would keep his position open for that long, that is. With a sigh, the teenager stood, pausing mid-way as a wave of vertigo hit him. When it passed, he looked up to see Snape staring at him with an intense but unreadable gaze.

Deliberately ignoring the potions master, he moved towards his closet and swiftly removed several articles of clothing from within before slipping behind the screen he had set up in a corner of the room to change. If the tell-tale signs were anything to go by, his vision would be going apeshit again. No library book or goblin that he had consulted had an answer to his problem, and the healer he visited in Avalon had dismissed it as an after-effect of his IMI. The aether sincerely hoped that he was right.

'_Date?_'

Aindreas snorted softly, amused, running a brush through his hair so that it fell in a way that framed his too-skinny face.

"July 31st."

Severus shot a withering stare at the back of the boy's head and did not deign to clarify. Were he not confined to the bloody mattress, he would have shot a stinging hex at the insolent whelp. As it were, he merely continued to glare daggers at the head of his saviour.

"Not a date," the redhead eventually gave in, turning to face his patient once he was done primping. He fiddled with the knot at his throat, needlessly adjusting the green tie that contrasted nicely against the charcoal suit he wore. It seemed a nervous habit, but his features were calm. "I have Board meeting to attend."

A dark brow quirked skywards and Aindreas' lips twisted slightly in response. No doubt the wizard was wondering why a poverty-steeped boy like himself owned a tailored suit and was traipsing off to meet with muggles in similar garb. But as he did not exist to quench Snape's curiousity, the teenager merely placed a glass of water by the bed and lifted the _immmobulus_weighing down the professor's arm. Sitting up as he was, the man should have no problem reaching for it if he needed. What ache or pain that would result from such a motion would just have to be borne.

"I should be back with dinner before nightfall," he stated, slipping into his dress shoes and out the door.

As a Hogwarts professor, Severus should have known better than to put so much weight on an adolescent's words. Aindreas had clearly forgotten about buying their dinner, even if he had arrived on time.

The potions master watched dispassionately as the boy stumbled into the room four hours later, fumbling to replace the door lock before heading straight for his bed, fairly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get there. Perspiration beaded across a too-pale forehead and his usually impeccable hair bore an uncanny resemblance to a crow's nest. Shaking fingers unknotted the silk tie and clumsily tugged the first two buttons of his shirt open before burying themselves deep into his hair as he cradled his head and attempted to regain control of his harsh breathing.

Severus idly ran through several possible scenarios that could have had the usually placid boy so distraught, amusing himself by conjuring several of those ridiculous scenes and playing them out in his mind's eye. The book hovering before him – clearly disgruntled at being ignored – flapped its pages impatiently at his face and was rewarded with a piercing glare that had it pouting childishly in a way only a book could. The dark-haired wizard rolled his eyes and gave up on reading entirely. He grabbed the book out of mid-air and dropped it by the bed, wincing as tender muscles were stretched.

Glancing over at Aindreas' makeshift bed, Severus was surprised to see the boy lying down, still wearing that ridiculous suit as he tossed and turned, doing a fantastic job of pulling out every strand of auburn hair on his head. His set of perfectly straight teeth were clenched, gritted together until a vein in his forehead began to protrude and throb. Severus surveyed the scene and came to the instant – and very obvious – conclusion that the boy was in physical pain. And though he was not yet screaming, the unnatural silence that had settled in the room could only mean that his young caretaker had thrown up a silencing ward.

'_Aindreas._'

Unsurprisingly, his mental call met with a wall of silence. Severus scowled and shut his eyes, directing his magic away from its healing and into dissipating the _immobulus_charms placed about his body. It was tedious work, and when he was done, a good half hour had passed. The scrawny male was clearly screaming his heart out by then. Fair features were scrunched together as his mouth gaped open and his skin turned a mottled shade of red that bordered on purple. Carefully and painstakingly slowly, Severus heaved his lanky frame into a standing position, as shaky on his feet as a newborn babe. Every muscle and joint screamed protests at every movement he made and the slightest shift of his weight set fire to his legs.

But (or perhaps thankfully would be more apt) before he could take his first step, the room exploded into light and what careful balance he had established was rudely swept from under him. As Severus fell over and landed painfully onto the mattress, he berated himself for even trying to help someone else. Merlin knew it never paid off.

* * *

_**Part II: Solutions that are not answers  
**__1__st__ August, 1994_

There was a circle of destruction around him, singed grass and fallen trees that sent spirals of smoke to the heavens. In the centre of that circle stood a panting aether, arms hanging limply by his side as he focused entirely on drawing in and expelling oxygen from his lungs. Bright verdant orbs stared unseeing into the forest, and Vyler wondered what occupied the young being's thoughts. He wanted to step forward to make sure the youngling was well, but thoughts for his own safety stayed him.

In truth, Aindreas' mind was blissfully empty, void of thought or emotion save for the thrum of relief that had settled in his stomach. He paid it no mind, though, and settled for doing and thinking of absolutely nothing. Not even the awed eldar standing beyond the warded perimeter could distract him from the blessed emptiness and absence of pain.

Dusk teetered on the brink of falling before the dark-haired teenager took first one step, and then another as he made his way towards Vyler. Active consciousness had returned to him, and it was with some satisfaction that he dispelled the containment ward with a twitch of his fingers. He was right then. The breakdown Snape had witnessed (and suffered from) two weeks ago indicated that once he had expelled enough magic from within him, his sight would calm and the brilliant colours and runes of magic would die down, only to be seen when he wanted them to be seen. It still worried at him, but his worst fears had quelled in the face of the affirmation brought about by his impromptu experiment.

At his approach, the lithe eldar dropped easily to his feet from the branch he had perched himself on while he waited. He held a closed book in his hand, which he banished while waiting for Aindreas to reach him. A wane smile was sent his direction, though Vyler could tell the youth's heart was not in it. Not for the first time, he wondered what secrets the little aether was harbouring beneath that wall of power he wielded with stunning ease. Secrets that weighed down too-slender shoulders and lurked in the darkened depths of impossibly green orbs. Still, he held on to his silence and for that, Aindreas was both grateful and glad.

"Sorry," he offered, almost hesitant, even as he transfigured his wizarding robes to his less-restricting aether ones. If Vyler found that odd, he made no indication of it, nodding towards the spoiled greenery instead.

"I'm not the one you should be apologising to," he responded gently, reaching out to smooth down silk-like strands of auburn that had become tousled in the magic-induced wind. Aindreas flushed and nonetheless murmured another needless apology. It could not have been pleasant for the forest eldar to watch him destroy the area, especially since Vyler was responsible for bringing him there. Forests – or plants of any kind – were, he had learned, almost sacred to the beings of his companion's race. But he had begged, desperation emanating from him, for the eldar to take him to a place where it was safe for him to channel his magic freely.

He had not said his magic would be destructive.

Vyler smiled gently, looking quite unlike his usual cheeky self. Reaching an arm over Aindreas' shoulder, the eldar closed his eyes and sent his own brand of magic pulsing from a jade-hued ring he wore on his middle finger. Carefully and meticulously, he swept his magic through the large clearing, encouraging and teasing life from the destruction to heal and grow. When lids parted to reveal his grey eyes, there was power glowing from within.

"See, child?" He murmured, his other palm still caressing Aindreas' head, encouraging him to turn back around. "They are resilient and would survive yet. In a decade, it would be as though we were never here."

A decade?

Slowly, the smell of burning wood abated, and some colour bled back into the toasted grass and shrubbery. But Aindreas could tell that Vyler was right. Even elven magic could not bring the dead back to life.

On impulse, the aether grabbed the outstretched hand by the wrist, not noticing the startled look sent his way as he channelled some of his own magic through Vyler's ring, willing the plant growth to accelerate. The clearing began to brighten, and Aindreas was glad to see that save for the few fallen trees, the rest would survive yet.

When they were done, Vyler was looking at him strangely and the aether shifted restlessly under the scrutinising gaze.

"I will come back here, when I can, to heal the hurt I have caused," he offered tentatively, fervently hoping that he had not raised the ire of the older being.

The eldar laughed then, a merry sound that seemed to raise a cool breeze in the forest.

"You are in eldarin territory, _petit_," Vyler informed him, affectionately ruffling Aindreas' hair. "Tis not a place you can come and go from as you please. But if you feel so inclined, I will bring you back here when you wish to."

Carding his own fingers through his hair and dislodging Vyler's in the process, Aindreas fought down the flush that rose to his pale cheeks anyway. The massive age difference between the two could not be more acutely felt, dissuading the aether from protesting at being addressed like the child he was.

"Ah… Thank you."

"But," came the add-on, in a sterner voice. "Do not try to merge your magic with another's without their permission in future. Some would consider it rude."

Startled, verdant eyes widened and had he any less control over himself, Vyler was sure the polite youth would be sputtering.

"I do apologise," Aindreas finally expressed, somewhat ashamed as he nervously smoothed out the front portion of his transfigured robes.

"Come, my too-formal friend," Vyler teased, amusement colouring his lilting tone as he dismissed yet another of the youth's apologies. "We should return before my sister worries. You may provide your explanations then."

* * *

_**Part III: The Dragon's Lair**__  
19__th__ August, 1994._

Silence stretched between the two, a much familiar companion of theirs, and neither saw the need to disturb it. Somewhere along the way – it was a long drive from London to Hogsmeade, after all – Aindreas had the audacity to fall asleep, his head lolling until it came to rest against Severus' shoulder. The potions master, a forbidding and dark presence, merely scowled and ignored it, doing nothing at all to avail himself of the pressure against his side. Lily Evans-Potter would have smiled at the sight.

Until the Knight Bus hurtled to a stop, that is, throwing the boy's head off of his shoulder and snapping him from Morpheus' arms. The skinny boy shot upright, his face betraying nothing. Severus smirked.

"Hogsmeade!" Shunpike called out to them, the slight tremble at the end making the professor's eyes gleam with hidden amusement. He was hardly surprised that the idiot of a Gryffindor – who it seemed, was still rather terrified of him – had become a bus conductor, of all things. There was little else he was capable of doing, after all.

In tandem, both males stood, with Severus brushing out his robes and Aindreas straightening his wizard's coat as they alighted from the garish vehicle. Neither turned to watch the Knight Bus disappear with a loud bang, choosing instead to survey each other. The similarity of their actions were rather uncanny, one could say, though neither noticed.

Wordlessly, Aindreas offered the professor his arm, and the two proceeded to walk at an agonizingly slow pace towards Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

When they crested the hill from which they could finally see the stone castle walls, Severus gripped Aindreas' arm and waited until the youth turned his brilliant gaze to meet his. For a moment, he was tempted to dive into his mind to search for some answers, but quickly dismissed the thought.

"Thank you," he rasped instead, slightly unnerved that his silky tone was still lost somewhere in the back of his throat. They were the first words he had actually said and Aindreas rewarded him with the slight upward curl of his lips.

"You are welcome."

But still the potions professor hesitated, the grip he had on his child saviour's hand tightening as he considered his next words.

"The life debt…"

"Forget about it."

Severus scowled at both the boy's interruption and flippancy. One did not just _forget_ about life debts. Then again, little boys who could afford tailored suits and wizard's coats of fine acromantula silk did not live in a dingy room in Knockturn Alley on their own. Neither did _powerful_ little boys simply apparate into the Dark Lord's lair to rescue the entertainment of the day. Questions that he had been mulling over but never voiced bubbled to the fore again, and Severus had to keep himself in check. The boy had made it clear after his little magical breakdown that he wanted no beak-nosed British professor poking into _any_ his business. He was not a child to be bullied into any sort of submission. He did not need to go to a wizarding school. He did not need a wand to perform magic. And he most definitely did not need adult supervision.

Frankly, Severus could not care less.

"I shall wait for you to claim it then," he said coolly before continuing the journey towards the school. "You may reach me by owl."

Aindreas issued a vague noise that irritated the older man's sensibilities and the pair continued on their way.

No sooner had they stepped past the large iron gates did the castle doors swing open. A tall finger rushed out, preceding a smaller and an even smaller figure that trailed behind him. Severus did not have to squint to identify them as Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick right off the bat. His human walking stick, strangely enough, seemed to tense as he watched their rapid advancement towards them.

"Severus!"

"Albus," he replied levelly. "Minerva. Filius."

"I had feared…"

"I am living, breathing and walking," Severus interjected, not wanting to subject himself to a round of Gryffindor histrionics if he could help it.

"Barely," quipped Aindreas under his breath, and the spy viciously tightened his grip on the slender limb. The teenager winced, but his pain was swiftly masked by his usually calm façade. Severus thought it highly entertaining and savoured the thought of having the enigma as a charge in his House. There was a good dose of cunning in there, though perhaps not enough ambition. A waste, really.

"And who might you be?"

Those bright verdant orbs levelled a glare at the Headmaster, raising a few brows from those present. Then, as though realising how hostile he appeared, Aindreas carefully disentangled his arm from Severus' mighty grip and held out the pale hand to Dumbledore.

"Santa," the boy answered, his tone deceptively even and his features now schooled into polite disinterest. "You have been a good boy and I come bearing a present."

Severus snatched his hand back, offended.

Were it not for a calm hand pressed against his lower back, however, Severus was entirely sure he would have toppled over. It did not stop him from glaring furiously at the owner of said hand, though.

"I do so like presents," Albus remarked mildly, azure eyes twinkling beneath bushy eyebrows. "And I have to say I will thoroughly enjoy this precious gift you have brought me."

It sounded wrong. Terribly wrong. Severus scowled at Filius when the tiny wizard began to chuckle.

"I'm glad," Aindreas shrugged, and somehow the blasé attitude caused Severus' hackles to rise. Such rudeness was a side to the calm, collected and occasionally dangerous youth that he had only seen once or twice – as a reaction to deliberate provocation – during their two month-long interaction. For the most part, the teenager with the too-old eyes had been annoyingly nonchalant at times, steadfastly taciturn at others, and during his occasional bout of good humour, was even prone to being surprisingly witty.

Then Severus caught sight of the green wizard's coat that had felt like water against his palm and a wave of realisation washed across him. The boy, infinitely strange and puzzlingly complicated as he was, was a traditionalist pureblood. A traditionalist that wore muggle suits, checked a patient's temperature with the back of his hand, rode the Knight Bus like a common plebeian and deigned to heal a dying Death Eater. But a traditionalist, nonetheless, it seemed. The dour man cleared his sore throat and tested his little theory.

"This is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he informed the boy as though it would make a difference. "With him are Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and Professor Filius Flitwick."

Aindreas quirked a brow at the wizard who owed him a life debt, and wondered exactly how intelligent he was. Frankly, he was doing it just to piss his ex-professors off, and was using old wizarding etiquette as a reason to be rude. After all, one should not speak so freely to a wizard of standing. Not without the proper introductions.

If anyone were to guess that he had been Harry Potter, it would be this man, he mused. It would be good to exercise caution. But keeping up with what still felt like a masquerade, the aether bowed, very slightly – just to show that he did not think them his social peer.

"A pleasure."

"And this is Aindreas," Severus concluded.

"Aindreas Wyatt," the teenager supplied, and already Severus could see him slipping under a mask of controlled politeness. Few purebloods of the Old Way were fond of Albus Dumbledore who was an open 'Muggle Lover'. One did not have to bear the dark mark to be a pureblood, after all.

"Of the Ildefonso clan?" Filius queried, amazement in his voice that had gone up a notch.

"Yes."

The 'O' formed by the surprised Filius was almost amusing and there was a brief silence as all the wizards present digested this piece of new information. Aindreas, however, did not give them much time to settle in. Removing his hand from the small of Severus' back, he inclined his head once more.

"I trust Snape will be in good hands." A pause. He seemed to want to say more. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Headmaster, Deputy Headmistress, Professor."

Then he turned, exited the gates and proceeded to descend the hill with as much grace as he could muster. Minerva came forward immediately to steady her younger colleague but Albus watched the silk-clad back with a small, interested smile.

'_You are a man of great discretion, Snape. Do not tell your Master more than you have to, or I will be claiming that life debt earlier than I would like. I saved you. Healed you in Muggle London and brought you here as soon as you could move without killing yourself. Out of the kindness of my Gryffindor heart without care for a reward. Should they ask, I will be leaving Britain and returning to my estate in Europe today. You know nothing else.'_

* * *

_**Part III: Business transactions**__  
15__th__ January, 1995._

"We do not welcome your kind here!" The portly witch snapped, derision clear in her very countenance, her pale eyes flashing as she barred the entryway to the shop with her body. "It is bad enough that you were allowed to spend a year at my daughter's school, filthy werewolf!"

The werewolf averted his gaze, a pale, diminished figure of a man, swallowed heavily and bowed his head. Mumbling something that sounded vaguely apologetic, he turned to move away but was halted by a second body that had moved to stand in his way. His brows furrowed, and the brunette shifted to move around the child but was stopped once again by a gentle hand on his arm. This time, he startled and glanced up into fair features, ready to bolt or defend himself should the situation turn ugly.

"He's with me, Madam," the stranger spoke in a coolly polite voice that brooked no argument. Remus Lupin glanced down at the hand on his person, wary of the gold and silver signet rings that adorned slender fingers. "I trust he may enter to purchase what he needs?"

The witch bristled, drawing herself up. "He isn't here as a paying customer," she sneered. "He's looking for a job."

"And you have denied him one," came the simple answer. "Now he wishes to step in as a customer. Would you deny him that?"

"He's a werewolf!"

"And you are a witch," the child agreed. Remus frowned, having never seen the boy before. Surely, he was not a Hogwarts student. He would have remembered such a boy.

"It doesn't matter," he told the boy, genial even in his embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see passing shoppers shoot them curious looks. Had it come to a point where he had to rely on minors to defend what questionable rights he had? Both woman and child ignored him.

"I own this shop and may deny entrance to whomever I please," the shopkeeper insisted, having clearly overlooked the fact that the boy, though young, was dressed finely. He stood taller now, despite his slight stature, and pierced the witch with a disturbingly green gaze.

"I could buy over your shop and put you on the streets," was the chilly response. Remus supressed a shiver at the quiet, threatening voice of a wisp of a boy who must have only just gone through puberty.

Madam Letitia sputtered out another protest in vain as the green-clad teenager brushed past her, his hand still grasping the werewolf's arm. Remus wondered if he should protest, but feared it would create an even larger scene. So avoiding the blustering witch, he allowed himself to be led into the confines of the pottery shop.

He followed the youth as he browsed the shop, not bothering to even look around at wares he could not possibly afford with the little he had saved from his teaching venture.

"Thank you," he murmured and received a hum of acknowledgement from the strange teenager. "You shouldn't have, though."

"I will do what I want to do," was the slightly sullen reply. "As should you."

"I am a werewolf –"

"And I don't care."

Remus was startled by the anger blazing in green eyes that were so achingly familiar. He smiled at the boy, suppressing the urge to reach out and smooth that frown from between dark brows. Mollified, the teenager averted his gaze and picked up a vase, scanning it briefly before replacing it.

"What is your name?"

"Remus Lupin." Astonishment passed unseen through verdant orbs and skinny shoulder stiffened under the expensive wizard's cloak. Aindreas turned slightly so that he could study the werewolf better. Remus tolerated this without rebuke or response and the boy eventually continued with his perusal of the store.

"My name is Aindreas Wyatt," the redhead offered after a prolonged silence.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Wyatt."

Eventually, the teenager picked up a sturdy looking piece of pale blue earthenware that Remus identified as being a Victorian majolica jug. Wordlessly, Aindreas handed it to Remus along with a small pouch of gold.

"Would you make the purchase on my behalf, Mr. Lupin?"

Remus almost protested, but there was an odd look in those haunting eyes that compelled him to obey. Madam Letitia looked about ready to throw an apoplectic fit as she rang up the purchase. She was careful with her wrapping and packaging, however, and Remus offered her a gentle smile, recalling that her Ravenclaw daughter, too, was gifted with meticulous hands.

He had just paid – a rather ridiculous price, if he said so himself – when the boy came up behind him, placing a small figurine statue on the counter.

The witch bit her tongue to keep a scathing remark to herself, choosing instead to wrap the statuette.

"50 galleons."

"I beg your pardon?" Remus blurted. The jug had been 45 and it was a genuine 19th century piece. The statuette, on the other hand, while pretty, was merely a statuette that took little skill to make and had even less value on the market.

"It's 50 galleons," Madam Letitia informed him stonily, her glare daring Remus to say otherwise.

"It's hardly worth 1," Remus insisted, disbelief colouring his voice. Was she really going to fleece a child, wealthy though he may seem?

Aindreas watched their interaction with detached interest, a tiny almost imperceptible quirk to his lips.

"If you cannot afford it, don't buy it," the witch snapped, clearly at the end of her patience.

"Madam—"

"We will not, then," Aindreas interrupted, his tone deceptively placid. "I had thought it an interesting bauble to give Master Malfoy when I meet with him for tea. But no matter. I can find something else."

Letitia stared after the boy as he swept out in a flurry of green silk, disbelief colouring her face. The fact that she had just lost a potentially important customer seemed to sink in and she paled, her hands fluttering around the register as she tried to regain her bearings.

Remus left her to it, slipping out after the curious boy with the wrapped jug and money pouch in hand.

But as his unnatural golden eyes swept the streets, Remus saw neither hide nor hair of the slight boy.

[]

Aindreas' brows were furrowed as he considered the printed words on the letter.

"I don't understand," he admitted after perusing it for another minute. "They seemed perfectly fine when I met them last month."

Ironheart snorted.

"You shouldn't trust businessmen, Lord Wyatt." Goblin eyes gleamed. "Especially muggle ones."

The aether rolled his eyes, clearly having discarded any pureblood pretentiousness at his Estate Manager's door. Race discrimination was hardly something he wished to partake in. Not after he, himself, had been booted out because of his blood. Or lack thereof.

"So now they want someone else to fill my shoes? They want to kick me off the board? Can they do that?"

"With a special majority at a shareholder's meeting, they can. The company articles have a provision for that," Ironheart informed him calmly. "However, what they are proposing is a Trust."

"Trust?"

"Aye. Someone to handle your estates in trust. A proxy or agent of sorts, if you will. Until you have finished with your… 'University studies'."

"Are you not my proxy in that aspect?"

"I can hardly turn up for work in your place, Lord Wyatt," the goblin snorted. Thought it would have been an interesting sight, for sure. "And you are to embark on your studies in a year's time. It is not unreasonable for them, muggles or no, to be wary of a 14 year old joining the Board of Directors. There are no problems with the wizarding aspect of the corporation. But there are questions of legality, even if you would only be a shadow director."

Aindreas acknowledged this with a hum, tapping a finger against his lips as he considered this. It was not like he was going to do anything. He merely wished to retain the status quo. It was not like he understood the business or legal jargon. Nor was he in any way interested in learning how to run a business, muggle or otherwise.

"So all I have to do is nominate an agent to represent me? Preferably someone human?"

"Aye."

"Then what if I wish for that agent to be _more_ than a shadow director?"

Ironheart steepled his fingers and considered this with a gleam in his money-hungry eyes. The goblin smirked, baring his teeth in a horrific show of glee. Aindreas was unperturbed. It usually indicated good news.

[]

'_Mr. Remus J Lupin,_

_I apologise for leaving you so abruptly in Vertic Alley and only hope that you and my earthenware jar are safe._

_I write to you with a business proposal in mind. Should you still be in search of a job, it would please me greatly if we could meet again to discuss a possible venture. Do revert with a positive reponse. I look forward to hearing from you._

_Regards,_

_Aindreas Wyatt-Ildefonso, Lord._

[]

An ill-groom finger traced the words, inked out in dark blue in a steady cursive on heavy parchment. Shifting restlessly in his seat, Remus folded the letter and proceeded to inspect the seal for the nth time.

"Mr. Lupin."

"Ah, Mr. Wyatt," Remus looked up in the face of the intriguing boy-child, wondering if this was yet another set up for dashed hopes. "Or perhaps I should call you Lord Wyatt?"

"Aindreas is fine," the teenager replied, as he slipped into the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. Where the boy had been dressed from top to toe as a pureblood heir during their first encounter, Remus was oddly pleased to note that the boy was dressed like muggle boys his age would today – in a dark turtleneck, jeans, and high-cut sneakers.

"I brought the jar," Remus gestured towards the rectangular parcel on the table. Aindreas barely spared it a glance, though he did thank the werewolf politely enough. "The money pouch is inside."

An awkward silence descended upon them, and Remus watched with interest as the youth stared contemplatively at him. Then, visibly steeling himself, the green-eyed teenager leaned forward with his arms on the table.

"I will not waste your time with pointless chatter," he began, immediately waving off whatever protest Remus was about to make. "I have come, as I said, with a business proposal that I hope you will be amenable to."

"I am an orphan," came the blunt statement that Remus was wholly unprepared for. Aindreas, however, barrelled ahead a la Gryffindor style. "My—grandparents left me with a large conglomeration that has, somehow, survived turbulent times. I have recently come into this inheritance by way of emancipation. The wizarding board of directors are fine with my presence. However, the muggle-based wing of the company have raised some concerns that I cannot ignore. They wish for me to be represented by someone older and more capable of handling a corporation, given my large stake in their shareholdings."

Remus nodded encouragingly, already seeing where this was going.

"At present, my estate is listed as a shadow director. However, if you are willing, I would like you to step up as an active director – in my name, of course – for both the muggle and wizarding sides of the company."

Remus' heart thudded loudly against his ribcage, though outwardly, he merely tilted his head at the slight teenager who played the part of a traditional pureblood so well yet was seated before him in a muggle café of his choice.

"Why me?" He asked, finally. Quietly. "I know nothing of running a corporation. Not to mention a muggle one. Your wizarding partners would protest, vehemently if I might add, if they learned that a _werewolf_ is representing you."

The boy appeared to consider his questions carefully.

"My estate manager at Gringotts will show you the ropes _and_ handle the wizarding partners. You will assume the position of my godfather." Here, Aindreas paused, as though suddenly uncertain. "If you have no objections, that is. It would only be in name, to legitimise your position as my trustee."

"I don't have such an objection," Remus replied seriously. "I am amazed, however, that you are giving a werewolf you barely know – and that is an understatement – so much liberty."

Solemn verdant eyes met his amber ones steadily before the teenager replied, his tone inexplicably tender. "You don't have to understand, Mr. Lupin. I trust my instincts. They have served me well and will continue to serve me. All I need to know is whether you are interested in entering into this business with me. As my trustee. And my godfather in name."

"I am," Remus responded readily, although his subconscious was protesting the absurd and poorly thought-out decision.

"Good," Aindreas smiled then, a rare occurrence, and Remus was pleased to see a spark of life igniting in bright green eyes that reminded him sharply, and painfully, of another beautiful auburn-haired person with her dark-haired infant. "Manager Ironheart will owl you."

It was only later that Remus realised that his employer-to-be had not brought neither the jar nor money back with him.

* * *

_**Part IV: Schoolboy concerns**_

_Headmistress Cadence,_

_Re: Application to Mistral Academy of Higher Learning and Survival_

_I write to you to apply for a place in your prestigious school, in hopes that your offer for such a place is still open. I have attempted to follow your instructions to the best of my abilities to gain knowledge of the Magical Realm. Attending the Academy would mean much to me and I will endeavour to be a student you can be proud of._

_I look forward to hearing from you._

_With best regards,  
Aindreas Wyatt-Ildefonso, Lord.  
30th__May, 1995._

[]

_Dear Aindreas W,_

_Re: Application 002391 to Mistral Academy of Higher Learning and Survival_

_Your application for the school year beginning August 1995 has been received._

_It is with pleasure that I invite you to Mildred's Place for your entrance tests into the Academy on the 23rd__of June. Please come prepared with the list of items provided for overleaf. Failure to show or late coming will be accepted as an indication of lack of interest._

_Regards,  
Iain Chevorak  
Deputy Headmaster of Mistral Academy of Higher Learning and Survival  
10th__June, 1995._

[]

_14th__June, 1995._

Aindreas was beyond glad that he had decided to put Remus in charge of his business. The man learned fast enough for someone wholly unaccustomed to the cold business world, according to Ironheart, and was proving to be an invaluable partner, the only downside being his unquenchable thirst to 'get to know' his young employer better. It was beginning to get difficult to rebuff the werewolf who had been like a brother to his parents despite his attempts to keep their interaction to the minimum. His mother's diary had included several anecdotes about the Marauders (although none of them flattering) and he had found their yearbooks in the main family vault.

It was unfortunate that Sirius Black had killed Peter Pettigrew, and that his parents had not trusted Remus with the secret keeping because of his condition.

Speaking of which, he should probably owl Snape and see if he could obtain some Wolfsbane. Remus had mentioned it in passing, almost wistfully, and Aindreas found that he did not want the brunette to suffer more pain than he needed to.

"You might want to reconsider that."

"I beg your pardon?" Aindreas snapped his head to the right, startled, only to be met with the solid figure of another being.

"You don't seem very much like a broadsword wielder," the other male clarified, stepping closer. He was tall and broad-shouldered, all sinew and muscle with a rougish grin on his handsome face. By Godric, he was _huge._ Aindreas felt like a veritable dwarf even with him standing three feet away.

"I'm not much of a weapon wielder," the aether admitted, replacing the heavy weapon on its stand with some difficulty.

"Perhaps a smaller blade then?" The daemin suggested. At least Aindreas thought he was a daemin, given that his eyes were slitted and seemed double-lidded with a thin barely-there membrane covering gold irises that reminded him of smouldering ambers. He had a head of cropped blood-red hair that clashed with his tanned skin. "A dagger or short sword? Unless you tend towards rapiers and whip-thin swords."

"Perhaps," Aindreas agreed, following the tall figure who led him several aisles down to one where ornate daggers and knives were displayed. As long as he could wield them without breaking his own wrist, he figured it should be fine. He was no longer the skinny and underweight boy that had fled Hogwarts. Rather, he was now the slender and slightly underweight aether that was attempting to test into Mistral. He cared very little for weapons, preferring to wield his magic through trial and error. But the letter from the academy had included "a weapon of choice" in the list of essential items to bring.

"Catch."

Fumbling slightly with the sheathed dagger thrown his way, Aindreas glanced reproachfully at the unrepentant shop assistant who watched him with ill-concealed amusement. Beneath the leather sheath was a short dagger that looked just about right to harvest potions ingredients. He politely returned it to the daemin, choosing not to comment.

"No? Hmm. This?"

It took awhile, with the daemin's suggestions becoming more and more bizarre.

"Nanchucks?"

A baleful look sent the tanned being into a fit of deep throated chuckles.

"I kid," he assured the shorter male. "Here, try this out for size."

It was not a bad choice, Aindreas realised as he drew out what looked to be a long knife. He turned it in his hands, inspecting the sharp blade that had runes engraved into the slender metal. He identified one for protection, and another that would keep the blade sharp. The hilt was wrapped in simple leather and unadorned. It would serve, he supposed. Not that he knew what he needed it for, really.

"It comes in a pair," he was informed, and another blade was presented to him, hilt-first this time, and the redhead accepted it gratefully.

"Thank you. I think I'll buy these"

"Happy to help," the daemin grinned, a knowing look in his eyes. "Mistral Academy?"

Aindreas nodded, wondering how the taller male had managed to come to that conclusion.

"It wasn't that difficult. You're a self-declared weapon rookie, after all."

The aether blinked, before smiling faintly and heading towards the cashier as he drew a pouch of azers from behind his belt. It was with some surprise that he watched the other redhead place a sword on the counter for purchase. He was not the shop assistant then.

Aindreas flushed and ducked his head to hide his embarrassment.

* * *

_**Part V: Debris  
**__13__th__ July, 1995_

The Wizarding World was on the brink of full-fledged panic.

When news that the Boy-Who-Lived was an aether had first been leaked, there had been a mixture of incredulity and disbelief. No one knew where the Potter boy had disappeared to before the start of his third year, and they could only speculate as to how an aether could spring out of a line of purebloods. Lily Evans was blamed.

Then the nefarious Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban, followed closely by the kidnapping of War Hero Frank Longbottom from St. Mungo's. Unnamed sources reported that the insane wizard's blood and heart had been used to fuel the resurrection of the feared Dark Lord Voldemort. With each day came new tales of Death Eaters wreaking havoc on muggle civilians, and with each day, fear mounted, spread and multiplied.

Albus Dumbledore had little to add to the chaos, maintaining a diplomatic silence, even in his role as Chief Mugwump where he was faced with international pressure to find the boy, bring him to justice and quell the beginnings of another destructive war. Severus Snape had snorted at his reticence, missing the flash of worry that slipped across the headmaster's eyes like a shadow in a dark alley. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Already there had been calls for him to vacate and relinquish political seats and powers, as well as for him to retire from his position as Headmaster of the leading wizarding education institution.

But he was not ready to give up yet.

Fool.

There was something to be said about amassed panic, and even the great Albus Dumbledore and his considerable political clout was proving ineffective to quell it. Tension was teetering on the point of breaking, merely waiting for that one last straw that would break the griffin's back.

With a frightening grin that was hidden beneath an equally frightening mask, Lucius Malfoy gestured sharply to the men behind him, all in similar garb. Dark, hooded robes and bone-white masks. They were here to make a statement. And what a glorious statement it would be.

As a whole, they surged forward, inciting immediate panic as witches and wizards began to flee the small wizarding village. Some dared to shoot spells into a fray, but not one person actually raised any form of actual resistance. How pathetic. Shooting off a sickly yellow spell at a wizard who had managed to stun two of their number, the blonde watched in satisfaction as the man lay on the ground, helpless as the spell sealed off his mouth and nasal passages. He was dead in a minute, his face an ugly blue.

Lucius stepped over his body, careful not to stain his robes.

He revelled in the screams, delighted in the sobs and found pleasure in the begging for their lives. Did they not realise that such displays would only encourage his men?

Then, a flash of silver blonde caught his eye and the wizard peered through the chaos to seek out its source, absent-mindedly cruciating yet another insignificant fool.

It was a head of mithril-coloured curls, which was in turn attached to the neck of a clearly distressed child. Standing no more than two feet above the ground, she was issuing loud and heart-breaking cries, wailing for a mother that was nowhere to be seen even as she tugged futilely at hem of the organdie white frock she wore. She looked like a lost cherub amidst the gore of war and chaos.

Pale grey eyes widened, horrified, as he noticed a telling green streak heading straight for her.

Fool! Did the bumbling moron not recognise Malfoy hair when he saw it?

His heart – one rumoured to be stone dead cold – clenched painfully even as he raised his wand and swiftly summoned another man in the way of the crying child, intercepting the curse just as another figure leaped forward and gathered the toddler in his arms, rolling neatly out of the line of fire.

Lucius Malfoy exhaled, not even realising that he had been holding his breath. He strode forward, determined to rescue his niece from the mudblood taint of whoever was carrying her. He would have saved her any way, and thus owed no debt of any kind to the interfering stranger in a black and red coat.

A shrill whistle sounded then, alerting the Death Eaters of the presence of Aurors. Muttering a curse, the blonde Lord shot the dark mark into the sky – the signal for them to leave – and a series of apparations sounded, just before anti-apparation wards were snapped into place.

Pleased, Lucius slipped off in chase of the little silver-haired child. His robes transfigured themselves as he strode into the alley where they had disappeared, the bone mask melting off his face and revealing aristocratic features that spoke of a promise of pain for anyone who dared harm a member of his family.

By the time he located them, his robes had become a high-collared masterpiece in a deep black, and his walking stick had found its way into his hand.

"Unhand her," he hissed threateningly. "Immediately."

Startling green eyes shot up to meet his glacier chips.

"Lord Malfoy?"

"Master Wyatt," Lucius breathed, allowing genuine surprise to colour his tone. "I thought you had returned home."

"I was detained by business," the Wyatt boy shrugged, not seeming to care that he was casually carrying a sobbing toddler who was staining his dark and indubitably expensive wizard's coat with tears and snot. "I was in an associate's home when the chaos started."

Lucius shot him a penetrating stare that the teenager met with some difficulty.

"And you did not think to remain indoors to avoid the… chaos?"

"I was going to leave," the boy confessed easily. "But could not abide by seeing the child get killed. Is she yours, by chance?"

"My niece."

The slender youth hefted the girl in his arms, gently placing her on her feet before kneeling before her, seemingly unconcerned of Lucius' presence. Withdrawing a square of dark cloth from the folds of his cloak, he gently wiped the tears from her face before pressing the fabric into her small hands.

"Young ladies do not weep in public," he informed her mildly, as though the two-year-old could understand him. "But you have been brave today and I shall overlook it."

"My thanks, Master Wyatt."

"None needed, Lord Malfoy," Aindreas inclined his head, gently prodding the girl towards her uncle. Lucius grasped the hand that was not clinging to the young pureblood's handkerchief and watched, pleased, as the young man bowed and strode off towards the main street.

The Ildefonso clan, before it had faded into obscurity, had harboured fifteen families, each of them neutral and unwilling to participate in wars. But, Lucius mused, the past was not always an indication of the future.

* * *

To be continued...

Thank you _all_ for the lovely reviews. They always make my day. Please just assume that there is a standing apology for late updates. A fairly important point to note: I tend to respond to reviews via PM or email, whichever avenue you leave me. So please, if you have questions, give me a way to contact you so that I can at least address or clarify some of your concerns. Not being able to reply to some of you bothers me more than it should


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Edits have been made to the previous three chapters. If you have the time, and have not already done so, please do go back and take another read. I apologise again for the long wait. This chapter has, in fact, been written up for months, but I found that I had to go back and take a second look at the timeline so that I could close some glaring gaps in the plot. Please enjoy this chapter.

* * *

**Of Learning and Survival**

Chapter 4

_**Part I: Necessary Tribulations**_

_23rd June 1995, 8.17am._

The mountain peak disappeared into the clouds. Or rather, the mountain peak, _and then some_, disappeared into the clouds.

Which was a problem because Mildred's Place was at the _peak_ of the mountain – something Aindreas probably should have thought to find out earlier.

Swallowing heavily, the aether surveyed what he could see of the imposing mountain that was, as far as he was concerned, _impossibly_ tall. A heavy weight of apprehension settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach as he realized that scaling its heights on foot would take several days.

Auburn brows furrowed as the aether stared in consternation at the daunting rock wall, trying his best not to give in to the sense of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm. There was no shortcut up, he had been (somewhat gleefully) informed, as the mountain had been warded against all forms of teleportation methods. Not that Aindreas knew of any to begin with anyway.

If he craned his neck, he could see several figures rapidly ascending the heights in winged forms. None of them flew in straight lines or fixed patterns, often dodging and wheeling around to avoid being hit by some unseen foe. Nevertheless, they seemed to be making adequate progress whereas other less airborne creatures would probably have had to have enough sense to turn up in advance to climb the monstrosity of a mountain.

Again, he cursed himself for not thinking to scout the place out beforehand. Was he going to fail then, even before he could begin?

Face set in resolute determination, the teenager spun on his heel and keyed himself back to his Knockturn residence. Snatching the letter from the school off of his bed, he scanned its contents for the gazillionth time but did not notice anything new. Only the date was specified, which technically meant that he had until midnight to reach Mildred's Place. More importantly, it meant that he still had time. Not a lot of it, granted, but enough for him to work with.

Taking care of his attire with a careful twitch of his hand, Aindreas hurried down the stairs of his room and made a bee-line towards the cleaner paths of Diagon Alley. It was still early enough in the morning that his path was a relatively clear one. He moved with single-minded focus and stopped only when he was standing in front of the counter at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"Your fastest broom, please," he requested without preamble, piercing green eyes daring the wizard to do anything but. Its intimidating effect, however, seemed to be lost on the wiry blonde male across from him who had a blindingly bright smile and enough enthusiasm for the both of them.

"That would be the Lightningbolt," the shopkeeper beamed, tossing aside the quidditch magazine he had been perusing before fairly skipping into the back room. He reappeared a moment later, humming cheerfully as he presented Aindreas with an elongated wooden box. With reverent care that bordered on creepy worship, he eased the clasp open and presented the broom to the redheaded youth as though he were a high fashion model displaying a piece of million-galleon jewellery.

But it was a beauty indeed, Aindreas could give him that. His old Nimbus (that Dumbledore had probably already broken and burned) could not compare. In fact, it came nowhere close to it.

"The industry players thought it would take at least five years for them to outdo the old Firebolt, but the company churned this baby out in two," the shopkeeper breathed with wonderment in his eyes and a slight, excited tremble to his voice. "Up to 30% more speed than the Firebolt, with excellent maneuverability and deluxe cushioning charms. Responds almost immediately to its rider's intent."

Here, the blonde airhead paused with a smirk, dark eyes gleaming with what could only be described as fanaticism. "That is, if it likes you."

"Huh?"

"I've sold less than 30 pieces so far," the blonde confessed readily, reaching in to lift the broom from its box before offering it to Aindreas. "Easily half of them came back to replace it with another model. There are two reasons for this. Firstly, because it is ridiculously pricey, and secondly because they're _picky. _If the broom doesn't like you, you have no chance with it. It just won't listen."

Having received the broom with both hands, the aether did not respond. Instead, he ran his hands along its smooth, dark shaft, tracing his fingers along its name carved into the polished wood and briefly stroking the neatly trimmed bristles. The broom fairly _hummed_ in his hands, obviously eager to take to the skies. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Oh, it liked him all right.

"I'll take it."

"That's what they all said," the shopkeeper commented good-naturedly. But he bundled the broom back up in its box and handed it over with its user's manual and basic servicing kit. "You'll have to bring it back within 7 working days and in pristine condition if you want an exchange. That will be 199 galleons, 99 sickles and 9 knuts."

Aindreas signed the Gringotts credit slip and left the shop with a shrunken broom in his pouch.

Ducking into a small alley, he undid the transfigurations on his robes and swiftly traced the hidden key on the back of his hand.

He reappeared at the base of the mountain, stumbling even as he withdrew the broom from his pouch. Removing it from its case, he enlarged it and placed it flat on the ground.

"Up," he called, and a split second later, the broom smacked satisfyingly into his palm.

"If you're going to fly, I'll have to warn you," a voice piped up from behind him, halting him before he could kick off. Turning his head, he locked gazes with the tell-tale blood-thirsty eyes of a vampire. "There are creatures both in the air and on the ground that will try to strike you down. And the school bears no liability for any death or injury incurred."

"Ah," Aindreas hesitated, not quite sure what he was expected to say in response to that. "Thank you for the warning, sir."

He kicked off.

They were off to a rocky start. For the first couple of minutes, the broom seemed resistant to responding to his wishes. Rather than flying forward as urged, the broom made clear its wishes to rocket upwards like a muggle helicopter. But the aether gritted his teeth and looped his magic around the animated object, forcing it to move in accord with his will so that he could fly closer to the mountain before rising up. He would be an open target if he were to fly as brazenly in the open as the broom wanted him to.

The lightningbolt _pouted_ and Aindreas chuckled in amusement, patting it lightly even as he leaned forward to flatten himself against its handle.

"We pass this and we'll have a lot more opportunities to fly together, girl," he murmured, but obligingly raised their altitude a little when he could, so that they were flying just above the treetops.

Together, they flew swiftly and surely, climbing the mountain with alacrity until Aindreas found himself somewhat winded for breath from the change in air pressure. But it wasn't until they were what seemed like halfway up the massive height that the aether sensed impending danger. A dark figure was headed straight at him with frightening velocity, growing larger in shape by the second. Hissing out a curse under his breath, he executed a half-volley roll in the air and hit the emergency brakes.

Verdant eyes scanned his surroundings, swiftly locking onto the thing that had sought to impede his path. It was the largest bird he had ever laid his eyes on, coming to a height of approximately two Hagrids with a wingspan as large as a small muggle aeroplane. Aindreas' heart hammered loudly in his chest as aether and beast sized each other up.

"Whoa, an Acalyptus Condor," someone exclaimed, and Aindreas unthinkingly took his eyes off of the bird to lock onto the owner of the voice. Two cloaked figures stood to the left below him, each balanced carefully on a tree branch. Both had eyes fixed on the winged beast, which had lurched forward the moment the aether had averted his gaze.

"Watch out," the same voice yelled out, mocking laughter obvious in its tone. "Or you'll become lunch on a broomstick."

But Aindreas had already rolled out of its way, and with instincts honed by two years on the quidditch pitch, hurtled towards the condor. He took full advantage of the extra speed afforded by the broom, adrenaline pumping even as he marveled inwardly at the differences between his new and old brooms. Every slight shift of pressure his palms and thighs had the broom leaping to do his bidding. Aindreas smiled. Pressed almost flat against the broom handle, the redhead flew in spirals around the bird, dodging the powerful wings of the angered beast.

But the aether knew he could not keep this up. He highly doubted that he could tire the bird out this way and while he was currently outmaneuvering it with relative ease, it would only take one wrong move to send him reeling backwards and toward a certain death. Besides, he did not really have much time to spare.

Drawing a ball of charged magic into his palm, Aindreas hurled it at the condor as if he were throwing a quaffle through a goal hoop with the intention of maiming the keeper. The sphere smashed into the chest of the regal creature, but did little more than incite a screech of outrage from it as it batted at the aether and succeeded in sending the green-eyed teenager cartwheeling through the air with a strangled yelp. A wing had caught his shoulder, which now throbbed painfully.

"Are you mad?"

"You must be mad."

"Its body is impervious to magic, you know."

"And you can't kill it anyway. It's been declared a Protected Species."

If he could, Aindreas would have rolled his eyes. As it were, he had his hands full of an angry, screeching whateveritwascalled condor, and had little attention left to spare for his noisy spectators.

Diving towards the trees, he willed forward another sphere of energy, this one a pale blue that was larger than the first. Then, abruptly angling his broomstick perpendicular to level ground, he shot upwards and sent his magic streaking towards the condor's eyes, like a bad parody of a shooting star. But the beast let out a ear-rending screech and turned on its wings, almost as though attempting a back-loop.

Aindreas missed, obviously, but the streaking ball of energy caught the bird's tail feathers, rending a handful of feathers from it. Drawing deep breaths to steady his pounding heart, Aindreas watched as the condor took off with an unearthly screech, leaving behind only the feathers that were riding the air currents and drifting towards the ground.

"So," one of his two nosy commentators started, as though beginning a conversation on the intricacies of the weather. "Are you going to retrieve the feathers or shall we relieve you of the burden?"

"Huh?" Aindreas responded dumbly, his brain not having quite caught up with real time yet. He turned his neck to stare at the two beings, though his broom remained pointed away. They were a pair of vampires_. Identical twin_ caught a hint of a gleam in one of their eyes and made a split-second decision.

Snapping his broom around in a sharp U-turn, the aether sped towards the still-floating feathers, deftly swiping them out of the air before they could get lost in the dense foliage.

All four feathers were slipped into his trusty bottomless pouch at his belt before he returned to hover before the pair. His initial assessment had been right; they were balanced in an impossible way at the tip of slender tree branches. Gravity dictated that they should have snapped under their weight, but they held strong enough even for one of them to begin bouncing on the spot.

"Nice broom," one of them commented, a small smirk curling the corner of his lips. Aindreas found that he did not quite like the way he was being sized up.

"Unconventional too," the other nodded, twirling a dirty blonde curl around his finger. "No one uses brooms nowadays unless they're playing one of the old sports."

"Wasn't very smart of you, though," the first added. "Attacking a Protected Species."

"And then leaving it alive," the second grinned, looking somewhat feral as he ran his tongue over the tip of a fang. "Next thing you know, you'll have Creature Activists _and_ the condor's kin coming after your skinny hide."

"It was a sleeping spell," Aindreas responded tersely, relaxing his iron grip on the broom when it squirmed in discomfort. "Not that it worked. There wasn't much else I could do."

"See? Not very smart."

Aindreas bristled, but gritted his teeth and kept his peace. They were baiting him, he could tell, and if there was anything he learned by having Severus Snape as his professor, it would be that responding to baits would not land him anywhere but in detention.

"You should just have flown below the forest line," the other brother informed him, not unkindly. "The condors nest at Mildred's Place, but they know better than to get caught in _foliage._"

"I see," Aindreas nodded. And he did see. Somewhat belatedly, but still. He shrugged and inclined his head. "Thank you for the advice."

With that, he urged the Lightningbolt forward and dove below the treetops. It would take a lot more careful maneuvering to avoid getting decapitated by tree branches but if it meant safety then he would manage.

"Not a very friendly guy, is he?" The less annoying vampire commented, and since there was no one watching him, the aether allowed himself a scowl. Then with a last grumble, he shoved them to the back of his mind to concentrate on the more urgent task at hand: Putting enough distance between them that he could no longer hear their snarky comments.

It turned out, however, that flying amidst the trees was not all that safe after all.

Biting his lip so harshly he could almost taste the blood, Aindreas fought back a frightened scream as he scrambled away from the advancing spider. Unfortunately, what with being caught in its web of sticky yuck, his movement was severely restricted. What was it with the magical realm and gargantuan creatures anyway?

"Oooh, Ice Acromantula!"

Just when he thought the day could not get any worse.

"Sticky situation, little aether?" The vampire taunted, bouncing on yet another branch as his brother looked on in amusement. "I must say, you look rather attractive like that. Trussed up, tousled and oh so tantalizing. No wonder the acrumontula wants to get its hands on you. You look Too Tasty."

"You like alliteration," Aindreas sniped, ignoring the growing flush on his face as he struggled with his robes. If he had been wearing his wizarding robes, he would have been able to shrug out of his cloak in no time. "I get it. Now bugger off."

"I'm just enjoying the view," the vampire grinned, hazel eyes glowing eerily in the muted forest light as he very casually tied his shoulder-length hair into a short tail at the nape of his neck.

The aether ignored him, too preoccupied with the frightening visage of a blood-thirsty monster that was advancing menacingly toward him to trade insults with the blood-sucking moron that danced on trees and liked to take a laugh at his expense.

Heating up his hands did not work, with the web seemingly impervious to heat. In fact, he came that close to getting his hands stuck on the damned thing. If only he could somehow reach the blades in his pouch. The pouch that was charmed against being summoned. Aindreas cursed, employing his small arsenal of foul language to voice his displeasure.

"Need help?" The less annoying blonde asked, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "We could save you in return for a favour."

"What favour?"

"A favour that we can claim at a later date," the more annoying blonde replied, slinging an arm around his twin's shoulders with a cheeky grin.

"I'll think about it," Aindreas grumbled, still yanking futilely at his restraints. A five year old could tell him ten reasons why accepting that offer would be a bad idea, even if he were ten feet away from the ugliest salivating spider he had ever laid its eyes on.

"_Accio _daggers," he hissed, desperation colouring his tone. Much to his surprise, the hilts of two live-sized knives smacked into his hands. One clattered to the floor, but his right hand just about managed to grab onto the other.

"It's not a Protected Species, is it?" He asked rhetorically, feeling somewhat gleeful as the long dagger cut through the web, freeing his arms enough that he could remove his outer robe and drop to the ground just two feet away from the monster.

Verdant orbs gleamed in the muted light as Aindreas gathered a spell in his free hand even as he hefted the dagger in his other. At the first given chance, he would learn how to wield the weapon properly. But for now, cruder methods had to be employed.

With a push of his magic, he launched the dagger right at the acromantula, embedding it to the hilt into its head. It screamed in pain, and let out a loud cry, which it never got to finish because the auburn-haired teenager had lobbed a destructive spell at it. A soundless combustion occurred, exploding the giant spider into a splatter of guts, blood and flesh-eating acid.

Panting, Aindreas sat heavily onto the damp ground to regain his bearings, studiously ignoring the pair of applauding vampires.

"Don't sit there too long," one of them advised him cheerfully, tossing a twig at his prone figure when he failed to move after a couple of minutes. "You don't really have all day."

Aindreas blinked. And they were gone.

Hauling himself off the ground, the aether spelled his robes clean and retrieved both blades before wiping them down with a clean portion of his outer robe which he left dangling off the mangled web. Extracting it from the sticky mess would take far too long, and untangling his broomstick took priority for obvious reasons.

When he finally clambered back on to the lightningbolt, Aindreas was wiped. Mopping his brow with the sleeve of his robe, the aether sighed and checked his watch. It was almost twelve in the afternoon and he had not had anything to eat after a light breakfast at seven. But there was little else to do but angle his broomstick upwards and make his way through the clouds towards Mildred's Place.

It took him another two hours to reach his destination. One spell to help him with his breathing and one to stave off the cold, an ice yeti and pepe combination, two equine creatures and an intimidating snake (that, upon learning he spoke Parseltongue, would not let him pass until he placed the strongest warming charm he could muster on it) later, he landed gracelessly on the freezing snow and tumbled off his broom.

For a long while he lay there, his heating charm melting the snow around him until he was lying in a puddle of warm water.

"Are you here for the entrance tests?" A curious voice enquired as a shadow fell over him. Aindreas lunged to his feet and scrambled upright, propping himself up on his broom as he warily studied the furred being before him. A pair of sharp canines were flashed at him in a wolfish version of a grin and the ears atop the being's head twitched in time with its outrageously long tail.

"Yes," he replied finally, when it seemed that the other was not going to fill the silence.

"Better get going then. The tests aren't going to take themselves."

"Going?" _Tests?_ Was climbing up the bloody mountain not enough of a test? The average seventh year at Hogwarts would have perished six hours ago, he was sure.

"Head to the lodge over there," the daemin instructed, thumb thrust over his shoulder. "Look for Chevorak. He'll point you in the right direction."

Gazing at the indicated building that looked like it were constructed solely out of ice and magic, Aindreas swallowed heavily but trudged obediently through the snow towards yet another unknown.

* * *

_**Part II: It's only just begun**_

_23__rd__ June 1995, 2.10pm_

Clothes dried, bladder relieved and stomach filled, Aindreas knocked hesitantly on the door to a room indicated to him by a grumpy bespectacled daemin. The door swung open, seemingly of its own accord, and he peered curiously in. He was met with the unnerving sight of absolutely nothing. The room seemed like a complete void, sans of everything including light. It was like a dark hole of Nothing.

"Come in," a disembodied voice ordered impatiently.

Reacting instinctively to the authoritative voice, Aindreas drew in a deep breath and made to step into the void. But he pulled himself back at the last moment, arms windmilling as he fought to regain his balance. When he succeeded, he gripped the door frame and concentrated on settling his breathing, free hand reaching into his pouch.

"Hurry up," came the same, terse voice. "You don't have all day."

Enlarging the Lightningbolt, the auburn-haired teenager swung himself on it and flew in, more sure on it than he would have been had he been on foot.

But he could have saved himself the trouble, because the moment his broom cleared the doorway, he plummeted like a rock.

Panicked shouts were swallowed up in the dark and all frantic attempts at reviving his broom or levitating himself failed. Gravity pulled relentlessly at his resisting form and he free-felled for what seemed like an age as he clung hopelessly to his broom. His body felt like it was going into shock and the aether wondered if he this was how he was going to die after struggling through so many years of his life.

The impact came as a surprise, forcing what little air he had left from his lungs as he landed awkwardly, legs akimbo, onto what felt like a large cushion.

For several long minutes, Aindreas lay there, breathless and head pounding, trying his best to gather his thoughts.

Then with great care, he edged gingerly from his landing spot, not even bothering to stand. Magic pooled in his palm and his stomach settled a little more as he took in what he could by its faint glow. Beneath him was a smooth, moss-green surface that barely sank underneath his weight as he crawled forward. It ended abruptly, about five meters from where he had landed, and it took some maneuvering before he could get down its side.

With his feet finally on solid ground, verdant eyes gazed ineffectually around him at the darkness that stretched on for forever, save for a faint pin-prick of light challenged him from the distance. A deep breath later, he girded his loins and headed straight for it, sending the ball of light to lead the way. Though he stumbled, and it took a while before he realized he was headed downwards on a gentle slope, he did not stop. After all, there was no way back, was there?

His efforts were rewarded when a dim-lit cavern gradually came into view, lit by spheres of faint fairy light. What must have been an artificial field of long grass lay before him, broken only by large globes of blue scattered across it.

Aindreas would have flown across it, but all attempts at climbing onto the Lightningbolt were rebuffed as the broom quivered in what seemed like abject fright, refusing to carry him even an inch forward.

"You're a wuss," he informed the broom, voice bland despite his own fear. Nevertheless, he obligingly shrunk it and stowed it away even as he moved forward, feet decidedly more bold than his pounding heart.

He walked in a straight line, hoping against hope that no navigation was required, and at first, everything was all right.

Then he walked past the first blue globe.

It shimmered in the dim light, small flashes of lightning dancing across the surface. The aether would have paid it no mind, except that a frightened face appeared from behind it, causing him to let out a loud shriek that echoed across the cavern as he leapt away from it. The face turned pleading and Aindreas frowned, not quite sure what he needed to do.

"Just keep moving."

Letting out another ungainly shout, Aindreas spun to his left and winced at his own skittishness.

"This is a mine field," the tall figure informed him, a wry smile on his handsome face. He seemed familiar, but Aindreas could not put a finger to it. "One wrong step and you'll be imprisoned too, and it's near impossible to get out of Zing bubbles without the help of its maker."

"I see." Except he did not. Not really. "So I leave him here?"

"Yep," the other being nodded, although he did not seem too pleased either. "Nothing we can do."

Aindreas nodded and wordlessly moved around the bubble, trying his best to ignore the trapped figure pounding at its prison. His new companion fell into step next to him, and he tried not to tense up unnecessarily.

"I'm glad you made it this far," the other redhead commented, sounding as though they were already the best of friends. "Although I admit, I didn't think you would."

Nodding again, the aether kept his silence, casting his mind back for any memory of any meeting with the large being. The stranger in the weapons shop, Aindreas realized. He cut an imposing figure, and did not look like a teenager in the least with his thick muscles and cropped flame-hued hair. A daemin, perhaps, given the red scales that he could see encircling his otherwise bare forearms.

Undaunted by his lack of communication, the daemin kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation that Aindreas only half-paid attention to. For someone who had told him that they were treading on a _minefield_, the other male did not seem very worried. Or worried at all, actually.

But then again, that was before Aindreas unwittingly stepped on a round fruit that burst beneath his booted foot.

It happened about the same moment that he realized where he had met the daemin, and it was over before he could even react. There was a blinding flash of light. And then he was trapped.

He swore colourfully, ineffectually hitting at the curved sides of the blue bubble. Beyond his prison, he could see the red-headed daemin waving a broadsword around and yelling something that he could not hear. He swung the weapon at the bubble, and Aindreas was not really all that surprised to see it bounce back with equal force.

Strange, had the daemin not told him it would be useless to save anyone?

Biting his lip, the aether ignored his attempted rescuer and thrust a magically charged finger at the surface, snatching it back immediately when the charge flooded back up his arm instead of out it.

"Fuck," he breathed, shaking out his hand in an effort to rid it of the electric current he had created.

Racking his brains for a possible solution, Aindreas dug around in his pouch and tried to dig up something, anything, from his five years of magical study. He drew one half of his double daggers and thrust it at a lightning flash. From beyond the barricade, Aindreas could see the daemin still standing out there, frowning and glaring furiously at him.

Why? The aether wondered. Had he done something wrong? Those eyes, golden, if memory served well, bore into his own. And suddenly he could not breathe.

"Fuck," he repeated needlessly, glancing frantically around at his blue-hued entrapment. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He could not breathe. But still he chanted the swearword under his breath. Of course there was limited oxygen in there, and of course he was going to fail now. For about the dozenth time since he started on this crazy test, Aindreas felt that his death was imminent.

Gasping, a hand came up to encircle his throat as he tried to draw in oxygen into his lungs. Fingernails clawed at his pale skin and drew blood. This was insane. The bubble was not that small and he had not been encased for long at all. But still, he wondered if his face was as blue as the surface of the Zing bubble.

Desperation tore at him above his inane ponderings, and the aether could feel a dam bursting open within him. He tried to fight it, he really did, but all things considered, he felt it more prudent to concentrate his efforts on just keeping _breathing_.

Magic poured out of him, rushing from his fingers and from his feet, gushing free from the very pores of his skin to the ends of his hair. It surrounded him, pushed at its confines until Aindreas was screaming soundlessly against a seized esophagus.

An almighty crack silenced him, and his throat closed up, choking him as he gave in to the rush of magic flowing through every vein and every nerve end. Helpless, he allowed the darkness to claim him once more.

* * *

_**Part III: Forging Alliances**_

_3.30pm_

He lay within a cocoon of warmth, and there were fingers rubbing soothingly against his throbbing temple. A contented sigh passed his lips and Aindreas wanted nothing more than to snuggle further into that warmth and bury himself in it till kingdom come.

… _Wait, what? _

Lids flew open to reveal startled eyes as they gained immediate purchase on Aindreas' protector. He gasped, launching himself off and away from the daemin's lap, eyes impossibly wide. But the daemin only chuckled, nonplussed, as he rose from where he had been seated on the ground.

"You probably don't want to move back any further."

"What?"

Following the golden gaze towards the field behind him, Aindreas cringed at the sight of the burst bubble behind him. It looked disgustingly like a torn membrane, leaking aether blood that fizzled with every blue lightning that whizzed across its surface, eating into the remains of the bubble.

"Oh."

"You're something," the daemin commented, and the hint of appreciation in his tone heated Aindreas' cheeks. "I thought the only way out of Zing bubbles was to get it dismantled by its maker. You, however, just blasted your way through the damn thing."

The other male leaned in, a knowing smirk twisting his lips. "You must really hate being trapped."

Aindreas ducked and twisted away from him in a bid to hide his flushed cheeks.

"Are you always this familiar with strangers?" He demanded hotly, refusing to meet those serpentine-like eyes as he made his way down the field again, keeping an eye out for the round fruits.

"It's not like we've never met." Once again, the other redhead fell into step beside him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "My name is Corss, if it makes you feel any better."

It didn't, but the green-eyed aether stubbornly held his tongue. Corss laughed, shaking his head in amusement.

"Here," he offered. "At least take your blade back."

"Thank you," Aindreas said quietly, accepting the blade that he must have dropped earlier and stowing it away in his pouch. "You were right, the daggers suit me."

"I'm rarely wrong about weapons," the daemin agreed unabashedly but without arrogance, flashing the same grin he had given Aindreas those days ago at the armory where he had purchased his daggers. "But if you end up in a metal magics class, you'll probably find an even better fit."

Humming in absent-minded agreement, Aindreas noted that the incline was getting steeper as they progressed down the slope. They must be walking down the inside of the mountain, he realized, trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

His train of thought – and Corss' steady stream of chatter – was interrupted when they passed by the next bubble.

Desperate hazel eyes met his gaze and Aindreas was startled to recognize one half of the Terrible Twins he had met on his leg up the mountain. Except that he hardly looked terrible at that moment, curled up beside the bubble, his eyes suspiciously bright. Aindreas unwittingly slowed to a halt, ignoring Corss' questioning grunt.

Ever so slowly, the vampire rose, making no sound save for the rustle of his robes. Within the bubble, an identical face came into hazy view and Aindreas connected all the necessary dots to come to the correct conclusion. Blondie number one growled and the aether subconsciously adopted a defensive stance, cocking his head to the side as he watched the trapped vampire start screaming unheard threats at them.

"Why hasn't he run out of oxygen yet?" He asked, genuinely curious. The free vampire tensed, his face morphing into a scowl as he took obvious offence to Aindreas' question.

"He's a vampire," Corss replied, voice oddly soft. "Doesn't really need to breathe. Even if he weren't, a simple air recycling spell would suffice, I'm sure."

"Oh." Aindreas flushed, and the daemin chuckled despite the strange situation.

"What do you want?" The vampire demanded, his hoarse voice shaking in defensive rage despite the steady way he held his body. Aindreas had no doubt that one wrong move would have him pouncing at them, fangs and all.

"Do you need help?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"No," verdant eyes gleamed in the dim-lit cavern, and the corner of Aindreas' lips lifted slightly. "But I will help you in exchange for a favour."

Corss made an odd protesting sound and the vampire bit out a cynical laugh.

"And how will you do that, little aether?" Hazel eyes narrowed at him, and Aindreas wondered if it were a trick of the light or if his irises were starting to turn red. "I doubt even your new pet dragon will be able to help you."

He traded glances with Corss, who seemed entirely unfazed by the vampire's insult. The daemin – _dragon_ daemin – casually slung his arm across his shoulders, causing him to tense in the loose hold. Corss ignored him.

"As much as I hate to do this, I have to agree with the little brat," Corss spoke into his ear. The vampire, however, had clearly heard him and was beginning to bristle like an upset cat again. "Powerful though your previous display was, I doubt you have enough energy left to break through _another_ Zing."

Aindreas shrugged, stepping away from the daemin's hold and moving towards the vampire.

"How about it, blondie?" He asked, padding close to the bubble with an arched brow. "Your brother's freedom for a favour to be claimed at a later date."

Inside the bubble, the trapped vampire had begun to pound furiously at his prison.

A staring match commenced, but ended as quickly as it began when the free vampire broke the stare to glance helplessly at his brother. His irises were indeed turning a curious shade of blood-red.

"Fine. But if you even think of –"

Aindreas didn't wait for him to finish his words, drawing his dagger and slicing it across his palm. The vampire took one subconscious step towards him and the aether slammed it against the bubble.

Just as he had expected, the bubble-membrane began to dissolve under his palm with every drop of essence that seeped from his palm. Roughly dragging his arm down, Aindreas watched in satisfaction as the Zing bubble tore open.

"Remember, Baelo." When had Corss come up behind him? "A favour for the aether."

And then Aindreas was roughly gathered into strong arms as the dragon daemin started to sprint away, taking extra care not to set off any of the mines as he spirited the other redhead away.

"Put me down," Aindreas demanded once they were some distance away, but Corss continued moving until the aether started to seriously consider thrusting his blade into his side. "Put me down _now_, Corss."

The scaled being dropped him and the green-eyed teenager rolled away, noting with surprise that they were no longer in the grassy field.

Heated verdant clashed with slit gold, each simmering with anger as they regarded each other.

"Are you always this familiar with strangers?" Aindreas demanded again, clenching his fist around the hilt of his dagger. So help him, but if the other male took such liberty with him again, he would bury both blades in his scaled hide.

"You're no stranger."

"You don't even know my name."

"Fair enough," Corss laughed, a harsh mirthless sound. Strangely enough, it made Aindreas feel a little better, knowing that there was a less friendly side to the overly cheerful being. "And what about you? Do you always knowingly drip blood near hungry vampires?"

Caught, and not knowing what to say in response to that, Aindreas spun on his heel and walked away, not wanting to hold a pointless argument with a near-stranger. And certainly not wanting to thank the man for saving his careless ass.

They walked in silence now, Corss taking position by his side again. Torn between irritation and wanting to know why the dragon daemin seemed so intent on plastering himself by his side, Aindreas kept his mouth shut and his gaze to the front. The slope was getting steeper yet and there were several junctures in which he had to levitate himself down to rocky platforms below. The other redhead seemed comfortable just leaping off whatever perch they were on, but images of him missing and tumbling down the steep slope kept him from attempting the same.

They had escaped unscathed from a rockworm and gargantuan fire bat after knocking both unconscious when they came upon a glowing pond.

It was a curious thing. Despite being situated on a slope, its watery contents defied the law of gravity and did not spill over. In fact, its surface was so still, it seemed almost like a mirror and Aindreas would have thought it frozen over were it not for strange firefly-like creatures dancing across and beneath its surface. .

What caught his eye, however, was the figure lying in the middle of it, lying half-submerged in the pool with a serpentine creature coiled around it. It was a slender creature, unconscious for all intents, with long ice-blonde hair floating about its head like a halo.

Aindreas moved closer, until he was almost at the edge of the pool, and realized that it was a girl. Her skin was pale and her lips were blue, likely half-frozen from the chill. But then he stepped too close – just one step shy of the water – and the snake around her body lifted its head and hissed warningly at him.

"_Mine."_

Immediately, Corss' hand reached out to halt him and he slapped it away impatiently.

"You can't save everyone that you come across."

The auburn-haired teenager wanted to tell him that it was none of his business what he chose to do, but knew that the daemin was right. So he nodded and was about to turn on his heel when he noticed something else gleaming beneath the surface of the pool.

It was a familiar piece of metal magic, embedded on the palm of her left hand. A Jerusalem cross entwined with a rune of wisdom resting against an outline of a shield – a crest identical to the one embedded on the back of his own hand.

The Ildefonso crest.

Inhaling sharply, Aindreas stared at it, cutting Corss' protest off with a sharp gesture of his hand as he took the last step towards the pool. This was not someone he could ignore.

"_Go away,_" the serpent warned him again. "_This little one is mine._"

"_No,"_ Aindreas responded, the sibilant tongue slipping from his lips, determination lighting his impossibly green eyes. _"She is mine_."

The snake raised itself above the water, head swaying from side to side as it loomed threateningly above the pond. It was larger than it initially seemed and the aether swallowed heavily.

"_Come in and claim her then, Speaker._" The threat in its voice was unmistakable, but Aindreas had always been good at ignoring warnings.

He had one foot ankle-deep in the freezing water when Corss grabbed his shoulder. The aether hissed in frustration and stepped back, shrugging off the heavy limb and glaring at the redheaded daemin.

"Don't," Corss warned, tone deceptively placid.

"I have to." Aindreas did not explain – could not explain – why it was imperative that he rescued the girl in the pool. It was not for the gain of any favour or any inane need to prove his superiority as it had been with the vampire twins. No, this ran far deeper than that.

"Ask it what it would like in exchange for her then."

"_What can I give you in exchange for her_?" Aindreas obliged, and the serpent hissed an equivalent of mocking laughter.

"_You._"

The aether scowled and pooled magic into his palm.

"_You cannot harm me without taking out your kin_," the snake mocked, its blue luminescent scales reflecting the light of the dancing insects as it tightened marginally around the unconscious aether. "_I will accept your dragonling too if you must. His fear of water would be a delightful treat._"

Aindreas glanced back at Corss who had his sword drawn and his own serpent-like eyes trained steadily on the monster. His stance was casual, but every visible muscle up to his neck was tense.

"_No."_

"_Then you cannot have her,_" the snake said simply, its tongue darting out to taste the air. _"Do not ask further for you are not the one with the bargaining chip here, Speaker." _

"Wait here," he informed his companion, only slightly surprised when Corss merely nodded in acquiescence.

He sprinted in the direction that they came from, clambering up the rocky surface of the slope with agility he had not been aware he possessed. When he found what he was looking for, he wasted little time in levitating it and rushing back to the pool, ignoring the bones that littered the cavern floor.

"_Will this do_?"

Once again the mighty serpent laughed, its sound echoing in the enclosed space.

"_It will."_

Ever so slowly the water serpent uncoiled its massive body from its previous prey, forcing Aindreas to levitate the girl out of the water before she was submerged fully into its dark depths. Without warning, the snake darted forth with lightning quickness, claiming the enormous fire bat from right beside him with a pleased hiss.

It awoke the moment its fiery body touched the water, letting out a shrill cry as smoke began to rise from the water. The bat struggled futilely, kicking up water as its wings flailed.

Aindreas summoned the girl to him and left, unwilling to witness the gruesome sight and wanting only to get out of there before the smoke filled the chamber. He cradled the wet body close to himself as he moved, feet dancing lightly across the stone floor of the mountain. It was difficult, for she was taller than he and weighed heavily in his arms without the aid of a featherweight charm.

When they could no longer hear the cries of the dying bat, Aindreas crouched to the ground, and none-too-gently dropped his burden to the floor, cradling her head in his lap.

"Here," Corss spoke up, moving around the girl to kneel beside her. "Allow me."

Without waiting for his permission – and perhaps it was not his to give – the dragon daemin grasped the unconscious girl's hand. A red glow surrounded their joined hands, and Aindreas knew that his companion was providing her with heat. So he carefully shifted damp blonde strands from her face in an uncharacteristically tender motion, casting drying charms on her clothes and hair.

Almost painfully slowly, colour began to return to her cheeks and her breathing grew less shallow. The blue hue of her lips faded into a pale pink before Corss ended the spell. Much to his surprise, the daemin blew a blue flame from his lips and he watched in fascination as it hovered above her chest before sinking out of sight.

"Will you allow me to carry her?" Corss asked somewhat formally, golden eyes seeking his unfocused gaze and permission.

Gathering his wits about him, Aindreas nodded, transferring her weight to the taller being's arms before they set off down the rocky slope once more.

* * *

_**Part IV: Light at the end**_

_5.45pm_

By the time they emerged from the stifling air of the mountain into open air, the sun was already setting. The pair had settled into a comfortable silence. There had been no more obstacles in their path, although they did pass several trapped beings. Aindreas needed no urging to pass on by without stopping, and Corss merely walked beside him, carrying their precious bundle carefully.

Now, as they walked down the side of a river, Aindreas not help but acknowledge his tiredness, his booted feet dragging slightly against the grass as they walked closer towards a roar of sound.

An eldar stood by the flowing water where it passed in between the base of two mountains and descended as a waterfall into the valley behind them. With a gentle smile, the older being greeted them, hands clasped before him.

"Congratulations on making it this far. Please state your names."

"Corss Yves Blanc."

"Aindreas Wyatt."

A startled noise was heard and Corss glanced down in surprise at the aether he held in his arms, raising both brows that went ignored. Aindreas merely snorted, too tired to be fazed by the amethyst gaze pinned on his face. After a moment had passed, the girl blinked and shifted her focus to the eldar.

"Nicolette Chase."

"Very good," the eldar nodded, completely unfazed as he noted something down on a floating scroll beside him. "Any injuries that need looking at?"

For all their trials and tribulations, both Aindreas and Corss were uninjured. Bone-tired, perhaps, but not in any danger of losing their lives.

"Venom of a water Anconadiel," the girl informed him, as though it were only natural that she was being carried in. "It's at the stage of paralysis."

"Lay Mistress Chase on the ground please, Master Blanc."

The daemin obliged and both males watched in fascination as the aether cast several spells over her before laying his hands directly on her stomach, drawing out long viscous strands of electric blue that he directed into a conjured bottle. The whole process took several minutes, and Aindreas took the time to collapse onto a nearby boulder.

With the healing completed, the eldar handed the aether the capped bottle of venom with another enigmatic smile. She stood, shaking out her waist-length hair of shocking blonde and accepting the bottle with quiet thanks.

"Please present your keys."

Aindreas held out his gloved hand palm down, daring the eldar to order him to remove it. But the elf merely covered it with his own and pushed his magic into the metal. The now-familiar tug whisked him away and the aether closed his eyes and allowed it to move him.

He landed in a quiet courtyard seconds after Nicolette and before Corss. The aether traded glances with the tall daemin but the girl seemed determined not to look at them.

"Welcome," someone greeted them and they spun to face another eldar. She was similarly garbed as her counterpart by the river in long flowing robes of green. They each greeted her and thanked her in turn as she handed each of them a large piece of parchment.

"These are maps of the school grounds. You are to find lodgings for the night and report to the main entrance hall at the 8th hour tomorrow morning."

Without waiting for their reply, the eldar moved away, settling herself by the fountain with a book and a stack of maps beside her.

Aindreas unrolled his map and perused it, noting the star that marked their current location and that of the main entrance hall. The grounds looked expansive, stretching across what looked to be the entire valley that was enclosed in a ring of mountains in a way that could only be possible with magic.

"If you don't mind," Corss spoke, eyes studying a particular point of the map. "Could we camp near the volcano? After spending a day in that drafty mountain, my blood needs some heating."

If Aindreas thought it presumptions of him to assume that they were camping together, he did not say anything. Instead, he rolled up his map and gestured for Corss to lead the way. Above all else, he really was too tired to do anything else. Even the hunger in his belly lay secondary to his need to put himself in a horizontal position.

"Will you join us?" He asked the silent blonde who stood apart from them.

Startling amethyst eyes met his for a moment before she glanced away, rolling up the map.

"I will stay with you as long as it takes for me to repay my debt."

"Peace, sister," Aindreas soothed with a frown, not quite sure why he addressed her thus, only knowing that it felt right to do so. "There is no debt to repay. Stay only if you wish to remain."

But the girl frowned, anger sparking in those vividly-coloured orbs. "You saved my life and thus I owe it to you. Unless you mean to suggest that my life is not worth a debt?"

Caught unawares by her defensiveness and guarded reaction, Aindreas shook his head and moved to join Corss who was eyeing them with a strange expression on his face.

"You may owe me whatever you wish to owe me," he informed her finally. "I only meant that you need not stay with me out of a sense of obligation; stay only if you want to."

Gesturing for the dragon daemin to lead the way, it was Aindreas' turn to fall into step beside his companion who had gone back to perusing his map.

"I thought you knew her," Corss murmured under his breath, low enough that Nicolette would not catch his words. "I thought that was why you were so desperate to save her."

"No," Aindreas disagreed, aware that the girl was indeed following them, albeit several paces behind them. "But some things cannot be ignored."

"Indeed," the broad-shouldered youth agreed, his knowing voice causing the green-eyed aether to glance sharply at him. But Corss merely grinned and rolled up his map, clearly having memorized the route to his intended destination. "We are no longer strangers now, are we, Aindreas?"

"No," he admitted. "No longer strangers."

"Good."

The auburn-haired male could not find an appropriate response to that and so fell into a silence that was becoming characteristic of him. He spun the Potter signet on his right pointer finger as they walked, automatically putting one foot in front of the other. When they paused at the foot of the volcano, however, he groaned aloud.

"I'm far too tired to climb another mountain, Corss."

"Can't you fly?" The dragon daemin asked, amusement dancing in his serpentine eyes.

Aindreas refrained from rolling his eyes and withdrew his broom from his pouch, not wanting to even ask how the daemin knew that. He felt, rather than saw, a rush of magic from the daemin and was greeted with the sight of a pair of large scaly wings protruding from Corss' back.

He really should stop being startled over such things.

Glancing behind him at their silent follower, Aindreas asked her if she needed a lift.

"No, thank you."

She uttered a series of curious whistles and her rescuers watched with slight amazement as her feet lifted from the ground, buffeted by a gathering of wind beneath her feet.

Corss laughed out loud and launched himself into the air, his wings taking him straight up above the tree tops. The aethers followed him, and they made it three quarters of the way up in a matter of minutes, landing cleanly in the middle of a small patch of relatively flat land.

"We should throw up some wards," the daemin suggested as Aindreas folded his legs beneath him and collapsed to the ground with his broom beside him. "I wouldn't put it past them to test us while we rest."

"Allow me," Nicolette offered in a tone that brooked no argument, already cutting open the pads of her fingers to raise some basic blood wards.

Aindreas was not about to argue, his eyes already slipping shut as his mind fell into a restful meditative state.

He had not quite meant to doze off completely, but when he awoke still seated and feeling refreshed, the sun was beginning the rise from behind the opposite mountains. Gentle rays of sunlight filtered through the sparse foliage and the aether stared in awe at the sight of the school awashed in the morning light.

Last night, he was too exhausted to admire the scenery. But the school was certainly a sight to behold. Several stone structures rose from the ground, looking almost like natural formations as the river wound around its perimeter, starting from the large waterfall and disappearing around a bend to parts unknown. So expansive were the grounds that he could not see it all despite his elevated perch and unobstructed view.

Hogwarts could not hope to compare.

There was a rustle of fabric behind him as Nicolette stirred from sleep and approached. She sat, uninvited, on rock he had clambered on to and for fifteen minutes they sat in companionable silence, taking in the majestic view before them while Corss slumbered on.

"Thank you," the blonde murmured finally, as though it were costing her much to utter those words. "For saving me."

"You're welcome."

"I am in your debt. And it would be an injustice and a stain upon my honour if you deny that."

"Then I won't."

"Good."

Silence descended again and she began to painstakingly braid her hair from crown to the ends. Aindreas conjured two combs and offered one to her, using the other to untangle his own auburn locks.

When the dragon daemin awoke, both aethers were refreshed and decidedly less unkempt. It seemed, however, that the other creature was not a morning being as he took one look at the quietly content pair and took to the skies again, heading straight for the peak of the volcano.

"Is he going to bathe in lava?"

* * *

_**Part V: **__**Innate Abilities**_

_24__th__ June 1995, 8.05am_

They had been ushered from the main hall to the dining hall by several green-robed beings, and a crowd of fifty-odd teenagers were seated at tables scattered around the room just five minutes after their indicated gathering time. Latecomers, it was presumed, would be turned away.

Extravagant platters of steaming food were placed before them by smiling green-robed attendants, each one more decadent than the last.

"Poisoned," Aindreas noted, staring at the purple glow surrounding several dishes. Given the amount of energy he had expended the day before, he was not really expecting his strange second sight to return so quickly. But in this instance he was not complaining.

He missed the traded glances between his companions as he pointed out the dishes that were safe to eat.

The trio ate in a comfortable silence amidst the chatter in the hall. They each ate simply, with Nicolette drinking cream pumpkin soup with croutons while the boys chewed on meat sandwiches, Corss' clearly more bloodied than Aindreas'.

Partway through the meal, a large wolf-like daemin stood on his table, raising his goblet and proposing a toast to all of them who had successfully passed the entrance tests. Aindreas exchanged glances with Corss. If the staff had poisoned their food, the tests were clearly not over. Furthermore, there was an air of formality about the place, from the way they were served to the settings of the tables and the quality of their utensils. It was not meant to be a rowdy meal in a school cafeteria.

Then again, it was not in their disposition to behave thusly, although on Corss' part, it was probably because he was still partially asleep.

As if on cue, there were suddenly several loud thumps and panicked cries around the room as people began to fall out of their seats in dead slumps. They fell mostly by the table, although several smug individuals remained seated while their tablemates fell under the influence of the poison. Aindreas was only slightly comforted by the fact that they were all still breathing as attendants came forward to remove them from the room. Several were revived, but most were dragged out, leaving approximately three quarters of the original crowd.

As the last of the slumbering students were removed, a pair of double doors behind the only long table in the hall were thrown open, admitting a group of people. At their helm was a graceful aether, her dark hair piled on her head in curls, with a pair of intelligent periwinkle eyes that swept across the room.

Every teenager in the room, without exception, felt as though those eyes had pierced them straight to their soul, leaving all their secrets bare to her patient perusal.

"Welcome to Mistral Academy of Learning and Survival." Her strong voice carried without aid in the almost silent hall. "I am Headmistress Amadis Cadence. And with me are my faculty members."

She paused as a faint ripple of polite applause spread across the tables.

"I congratulate every one of you who have made it thus far. I do not think it has been an easy journey. But take heart in that your tests are nearly at an end. After today, you will know if you have the privilege of calling yourself a Mistral student.

"The Academy is a place for learning. Your education for the next five years lie in the hands of your instructors and, more importantly, in your own. You will decide how fast or slow you wish to take your education, subject to their approval. Take note, however, that you only have five years. After five years, regardless of your competence or incompetence, you will graduate to face the world.

"Of course, there are a number of you who will not test in. And another number who will not survive the five years. For we do not coddle you. Nor do we protect you. We are only here to impart knowledge and guidance. Survival is a game that only you can play for yourself. But that, I'm sure, you will find out in time.

"Today's guidelines are simple. We will be testing you for your natural and specific inclinations towards magic. If you pass a sufficient number of those, we will test your theoretical knowledge. If and when you pass these tests, then we will talk again.

"Good luck."

With a nod and a smile that was not quite reassuring, the Headmistress swept out, followed closely by her entourage of teachers. Aindreas swallowed heavily and tried to reign in his nervousness as a green-robed attendant came up behind them and offered them each a piece of parchment printed with their timetables.

A quick comparison told them that they were not identical.

"We'll meet in the courtyard when we're done," Corss unilaterally decided. "Since it's the only place we are keyed into."

They split up fairly quickly after that, each marking out their testing areas on their maps for easy reference. From the looks of it, they would spend more time trekking across the school than actually sitting for tests.

Aindreas made his first stop with time to spare, knocking on the door to a classroom.

"Come in."

Entering the room, the aether was surprised to see a brightly-lit cavern instead of the typical classroom. From somewhere beyond the walls, he could actually hear the sound of running water.

A dark-haired Sidhe gestured him in and he approached with caution. But the other male merely pointed at a nearby seat and wordlessly told him to sit. There were several testees already sitting around the room on smooth boulders. They were seated cross-legged with several coloured orbs floating in front of them, deep in a meditative trance. Some orbs were lit brightly and it hurt to stare at them for too long.

"Name?"

"Aindreas Wyatt."

"Spell it for me." And Aindreas did.

"I'm Jave Har, Prof Llewellyn's third year assistant. You're here to test your innate abilities for power and control. I'm going to put you under," the Sidhe informed him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Just let me in and I'll do all the work."

"Put me under?" Aindreas asked, settling his robes around him as he returned the Sidhe's gaze with incomprehension etched between his eyebrows.

"Only in a meditative trance," the other male assured him, dumping the coloured orbs in his lap. "It saves a lot of time and I won't even have to breach any of your mental defences. Assuming you have any, of course."

"I'd rather not."

"No? I guess you're one of those then," Jave said, unperturbed. "Well, you have five minutes to enter a trance otherwise I'm just going to fail you."

"Fine."

Despite his nervousness, Aindreas fell into a meditative trance with ease, gaining his equilibrium fairly quickly as he concentrated on the sounds of rushing water from behind the stone walls. When he had shut all else from his mind, he reached out with his senses, seeking the coloured orbs in his lap. One by one, he touched them with his magic, watching with satisfaction as they lit up and began to orbit around his person.

"That's good, Aindreas. You can put them down now."

Jave's voice sounded distant, but the older teenager asserted enough authority into it that Aindreas complied immediately. He opened his eyes to the smiling Sidhe snatching his seven orbs from the air.

"That was quick," Jave commented cheerfully, gesturing at the door. "Of course, this is the easiest test by far, but I don't think you'll have much problems if your control is that good. Now shoo. You're distracting the rest."

More than a little bewildered, Aindreas left. His watch and timetable informed him that he had taken ten minutes for his first test and that his next one was almost an hour away. So he took his time trekking across the corridors, carefully avoiding passageways that were not marked on the given map. Other prospective students hurried by him, none paying him any attention.

Still, he made it with 20 minutes to spare and he paced the corridor, wondering if he should knock.

The decision was taken from his hands when the door he had been walking by swung open and a feline daemin peered out at him.

"Professor Rennin will see you now if it means that you will stop your infernal pacing," she recited dutifully.

Aindreas flushed but ducked into the room, this one more conventional than the last.

"Professor Nicolai Rennin," the feline introduced, gesturing at the figure lounging behind a cluttered desk. Blood red eyes peered at him over a thick tome and Aindreas had to resist the urge to take a step back from the vampire. "Master of Death Magics."

"Sit."

Aindreas sat in the chair across from the professor, noting that the daemin had settled herself very comfortably across two joined desks.

"Name."

"Aindreas Wyatt."

The professor scratched something on the parchment before him and thunked a glass orb in front of him.

"Touch."

Aindreas touched it.

The vampire rolled his eyes.

"With your magic, you idiot."

Aindreas wanted to roll _his_ eyes. But did as he was told.

"Interesting."

The orb, where it was clear before, had filled with mist in two tones. Black and white. They didn't mix, although the black seemed to swim insidiously through the white smoke that moved very carefully out of its way.

"Well, don't know about affinity. But there is _something_ there." The feline had perked up to watch them from her perch. Aindreas swallowed uncomfortably. Rennin snatched up his hand and the aether jerked it back, staring incredulously at him.

"Hand. Now."

He could not quite say no to that tone of voice. The professor studied it intently, prodding at it with a sharpened nail. He wondered if he was going to draw blood.

Then red met green, bearing relentlessly into his head. Aindreas did not know what he was looking for, but it felt damned uncomfortable and so he reacted the only way he could. The chair fell to the floor as he rose and unceremoniously reclaimed his hand.

"So twitchy," Rennin noted, sniffing disdainfully. "No matter. I will find out. Report to my class when you pass your necessary foundational courses."

Clearly dismissed, Aindreas fled, keying himself directly to the main courtyard.

The same green-robed attendant from yesterday was there and she smiled sweetly at him. Aindreas swallowed heavily and nodded at her, making his way to an open-air courtyard by the side of the main building.

"Elemental testing?"

"Yes."

"Name."

"Aindreas Wyatt."

"Any known elemental affinity?"

"No."

And from there it went downhill.

"No, _dummkopf_ don't use your _magic_ to manipulate the water. I'm asking you to speak _directly _to the water."

"Let him go, Claire. He's no elemental."

"Well, _obviously._"

By the time noon came around, Aindreas felt like he had fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole. He had been through a series of tests, most of which made no sense to him whatsoever. The death magics professor was downright creepy, the music instructor blatantly hit on him even after he confessed to having no music or dance knowledge, the elemental professor's fifth year assistants declared him a dunce and the magical theory professor took one look at him, declared that he had the gift of parseltongue and magic sight and literally booted him right out of the classroom. Then, of course, the blood magics professor thought him certifiable for mixing basilisk venom and phoenix tears into his blood.

He sat heavily by the fountain and unwrapped the lunch one of the dining hall attendants had prepared. The eldar attendant smiled at him and he fought down the shiver that threatened to race down his spine. She, too, was in the middle of lunch. Aindreas idly wondered if she ever left her post.

"Don't worry," she told him cheerfully as she bit into what looked like a vegetarian wrap. "This place grows on you."

* * *

_**Part VI: The end of a long day**_

_7.30pm_

Nicolette and Aindreas sat side by side, munching quietly on their packed dinner. Their daemin companion was stretched out on his back in front of them, staring unseeingly at the darkened sky, too exhausted to speak. Well, not really.

"Can we really survive five years of this?"

The aethers traded brief glances.

"Don't know," Aindreas shrugged, and went back to his food, studiously ignoring the acceptance package that lay beside him. It contained, they were told, the school guide book and instructions as to what they needed to do before the school term started in August. More interestingly, it also contained the classes that they had to take and classes that they were personally eligible for. They had agreed to open them together. But only after they were fed and watered and therefore less likely to succumb to bouts of hysteria or panic.

He had not asked what had gone on during their tests, and they had given him the same courtesy. But by unspoken agreement, each understood that it had been a trying day, and none could say for sure if they had known what they were getting themselves into. Aindreas was only glad that he was no longer going at it completely alone.

Their two-day-old friendship – if it could even be termed such – was not quite the same two-year camaraderie that Harry Potter had had with Hermione and Ron. However, it was a comfortable enough companionship born from a necessary reliance on each other. Aindreas did not _trust_ them per se, but at the very least Nicolette owed him her life, and he was fairly sure he owed the dragon daemin _something_, although he was not entirely sure what it was.

"Why, hello, little aether," a voice crooned right into his ear. "I suppose I'll be seeing you when school starts."

Corss and Nicolette had lurched to their feet and drawn their weapons in the blink of an eye. But Aindreas deliberately took his time in turning his head to meet the hazel gazes of a pair of familiar vampires.

A smirk curled a corner of his lips, and green eyes darkened as he regarded them calmly.

"I suppose you will."

* * *

To be continued…


End file.
